


Bound Hearts

by waffles_007



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 19:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16310879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waffles_007/pseuds/waffles_007
Summary: They were born to fulfill pre-prescribed destinies: Brent to one day become King to rule over Castle Seabrook and all its holdings, and Duncan to become the Prince’s personal bodyguard. As children, Master Keith, Duncan’s father and bodyguard to the King, would often find the two at each other’s throats, usually covered in mud down by the creek: Duncan screaming about some type of injustice while the Prince impudently feigned innocence.At age eight, Brent was sent over the mountains to live with his Uncle Gareth to learn the ways of the court. At the same time, ten-year-old Duncan was placed under the tutelage of Sir Marion, the castles’ most skilled swordsman. Ten years later, upon Brent’s return to Castle Seabrook, Duncan was instilled as the Prince’s bodyguard. Although they’d aged, Brent at 18 and Duncan at 20, they each continued to test one another’s patience. Slowly their friendship blossomed and before long, each man, on their own developed stronger feelings for one another.In a heated argument, shortly after it was declared Brent was to be married, it all came to a head that resulted in declarations of love and the start of an illicit affair that would eventually lead to turmoil in their lives.





	Bound Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> References to Charlie Coyle and Jeff Carter.
> 
> Very big thanks to my absolute bae, Darkangel0410. She's the best and always listens to me scream about old marrieds. I love her to bits!

Master Keith finds them down by the creek; the one that winds in a lazy bubbling flow from high up in the mountains and meanders along the tree-line at the rear of Castle Seabrook. In the water, with a face as red as the blacksmith’s poker, sits his son, Duncan, screaming at the top of his lungs in anger. Facing him, covered head to toe in thick clots of mud, stands the young Prince Brent, wooden sword drawn and leveled.

“He—he—put—” Duncan stutters, blind with rage. “He put a _frog_ in my tunic!”

“Did not.” Prince Brent rolls his eyes and dares Master Keith to disagree.

“Did too!” Duncan scrambles up, slipping in the mud and falling to his hands and knees before attempting another lunge at the Prince. “It’s right there!” Duncan points to a slightly exasperated looking bullfrog.

Duncan’s stopped short, his father’s strong hand grabbing the collar of his tunic tightly. Duncan swings his fists and kicks his legs, ineffectually, just out of reach of the Prince, who looks extremely put out by Duncan’s display.

“I’m telling my father, the _King_ , on him.” Prince Brent looks down his nose at Duncan while stressing his words.

Duncan sticks out his tongue.

Brent raises an eyebrow and turns, looking up at Master Keith, opening his blue eyes wide and does his best to project complete princely innocence. “He started it.”

Master Keith shakes his head; it’s at least the third time this month he’s happened upon the two boys in a similar state. Each time, his son set to explode while the Prince stands back, cocky as any seven-year-old can be, proclaiming innocence while covered head to toe with mud.

“And I,” Master Keith pauses for a moment, loosening his grip on Duncan’s tunic, “will be informing the King of your transgressions as well, young Brent.”

“ _Prince_ Brent.” Brent replies snottily.

Master Keith takes a deep breath and points at the castle and gives both boys his most menacing glare. “Castle. Now.”

“Yes, Dad.” Duncan grumbles and sets his face in to an eerily similar grimace as he heads off, a step or two ahead of his father.

“Yes, Master Keith.” Prince Brent scowls and sheaths his wooden sword, kicking at the ground before stomping up the hill back to the castle. Last time Master Keith brought him back to his father, Brent had ended up in the kitchen with the scullery maid and a never-ending mountain of dirty plates. It isn’t fair, he thinks, he’s the _Prince_. 

~*~

Duncan’s father recounts finding the boys down by the creek, _again_ , as the King sits back and does his best to hide his smile at the mention of the frog. The King remembers, all those ages ago, similar skirmishes between himself and Master Keith at the same creek, always ending in a talking to by his father and long nights in the kitchen scrubbing dirty pots as punishment. Thankfully, as they’d grown up, they’d put their differences aside, and they now spoke, not just as King and loyal bodyguard, but as the best of friends. “A frog, you say?” The King comments.

“A really big frog! A _bullfrog_.” Duncan interrupts, greatly exaggerating its size with his hands held at least a foot apart.

“It wasn’t _that_ big.” Brent scoffs, holding his thumb and forefinger apart showing barely an inch.

“Was too!” Duncan’s face takes on a familiar shade of crimson as his temper flares.

“Boys!” Master Keith whips his head around and glares at the two boys, especially his son, raising an eyebrow, silently willing Duncan to stop talking.

“Was not.” Brent whispers, assuming only Duncan can hear. It earns him a similar withering look from Master Keith and he snaps his mouth shut and looks down at the floor.

“Regardless of size,” the King continues, “that kind of behavior is inappropriate. Brent, go find your mother and have her inform the Chamberlain to draw a bath for you. I’ll speak to you later.” The King speaks sternly to his son and waves his hand, dismissing the Prince before turning back to Master Keith and Duncan. “Now, Duncan, please, what really happened down by the creek? Why does my son look like he’s been dragged through the mud from hell and back?”

Duncan looks up to his father who gives a slight nod before speaking. “Um, your Majesty, Prince Brent, um…” Duncan shuffles his feet, as much as he wants to get the young Prince in trouble, he’s not sure if he really should. He is the Prince after all.

The King leans forward, bringing himself down to Duncan’s level and places a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Did he say something about your height again?”

Duncan nods and adds, “yes, your Majesty,” a moment later after his father nudges him lightly.

The King sits back, obviously trying to hold back a chuckle. “You two—” the King shakes his head, “like oil and water when you’re together. Why don’t you find your mother too and have her clean you up a little bit? I’m sure your father will speak to you later.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Duncan gives a short bow and skitters out of the room towards the quarters he shares with his mother and father.

“Boys will be boys, won’t they, David?” The King laughs after Duncan’s run off. “Always finding trouble with each other.”

Master Keith shakes his head. “I’m appalled at my son’s behavior, your Majesty. I seek your forgiveness, once more, for his actions.”

The King laughs again, louder this time, and it’s infectious. “I’ll take no such apology, David, and no need to be so formal.” He beckons Master Keith to take a seat beside him and leans in, conspiratorially. “We both know Brent is the one instigating this. He’s spoiled rotten and thinks because he’s the Prince he’s entitled to do whatever he chooses.”

Master Keith stays silent.

“In a few short months, young Brent will be off to live with his Uncle Gareth, on the other side of the mountains. He’ll be educated; trained in weaponry, horses, hunting, and eventually affairs of the state and advanced court tactics as he gets older. It’ll put his head on right—get him out of the pomp and circumstance of the castle where he’s treated as if he can do no wrong.” The King explains. “I remember that did wonders for our relationship.” The King chuckles, remembering. “I expect your Duncan will also start his training soon?”

Master Keith nods. “Set to begin his training with Sir Marion shortly, your Majesty, he’s almost ten. He’ll be groomed to be the Prince’s bodyguard one day. I hope by then they can get along.”

The King laughs. “They won’t have a choice, David. It’s the way it must be. As you trained to be my bodyguard, your son must also train to be Brent’s. We can only hope they become friendly as they grow.”

“Very true, your Majesty. Very true.”

~*~

“But I don’t want to go!” Brent raises his voice and stomps his feet. His mother can see he’s gearing up to throw what can only be described as an epic tantrum. “I—”

“There is no discussion, Brent.” The Queen cuts him off, shushing him before continuing. “You’re going to be eight soon. You are the Prince and with that comes the responsibility of an education. Your Uncle Gareth will see to it as your father’s Uncle did for him.”

“But—”

Brent’s mother opens her arms and motions her son close. “You’re a big boy, Brent. I’m very proud of you and I know you’ll impress everyone at your Uncle’s. You’re smart as a whip.” Her hand strokes through Brent’s thick brown hair, pushing it back from his eyes, taking a long look at his face and his watery blue eyes. Her thumb rubs across his cheekbone, wiping away an errant angry tear, and her chest tightens too. Brent is her first born, heir to the throne, barely eight years old and off to the distant land of her husband’s brother. She knows the next time she sees Brent the youthful roundness of his face will be replaced with the angled jaw of a grown man.

The Queen swallows the growing lump in her throat, putting on a brave face for her son, “I’ll miss you, son. Be good.”

~*~

As the horse-drawn carriage shakes and rumbles its way along the cobblestone path extending away from the castle, Brent turns around, taking one last look at the family he’s leaving behind. His father, the King, tall and stately, stern but fair. And the Queen, his mother, the woman who coddled him and encouraged him, holding his younger brother by the hand lest he wander off in to the crowds of well-wishers. He feels the sting and prickle of tears at his eyes as she waves; she’s always been there when he needed her with a gentle hand and understanding hugs. And that’s gone now.

Brent blinks the tears way and scans the crowd as the carriage continues to make its way to the looming wooden gate.

The last thing he sees is Duncan, standing on a stone outcropping near the entryway, sticking out his tongue and giving him the smuggest look Brent’s ever seen. Brent hopes he falls.

~*~

Sir Marion knocks the wooden practice sword from Duncan’s hand leaving Duncan wincing as the sharp sting resonates through his fingers. “Again.”

Duncan retrieves his weapon, wraps his hands around the hilt, and raises the weapon to the ready position above his shoulder.

“Feet, Duncan.” Sir Marion kicks out, nudging Duncan’s feet in to the proper stance. “You’ll lose your balance standing that way. It will cost you your life.” Sir Marion is nothing if not grim.

Duncan grits his teeth, lets out a growl, and brings the sword down in a swooping arc, missing his target, Sir Marion’s sword, by a good six inches. Again, he feels the sting in his fingers as Sir Marion sends his sword tumbling out of his grip. Duncan lets out a frustrated grunt.

“Again.”

Over and over, with Sir Marion nudging and poking and repositioning Duncan’s hands and feet, eventually Duncan makes contact. What would be a slicing blow with a sharpened sword, lands with a dull thwack against Sir Marion’s side. Sir Marion’s face barely changes. “Again.”

~*~

_Ten Years Later_

The sun gleams down, bathing the training yard with its soft yellow glow in the afternoon, causing tiny specks of dust and dirt to glint and shimmer as they float aimlessly about. Above, leaning on the railing of his balcony, the eighteen-year-old Prince raises a hand to his brow effectively shading his eyes from the glare. His gaze is trained on the sweat-soaked figure below: Duncan.

Duncan is alone, Sir Marion nowhere to be found, always training, always honing his skills; this time, planning and executing measured attacks on a hay filled sack tied to a pole. His sword comes down, comes down again, and the third time, the Prince watches as tufts of hay come spilling out of a split left by Duncan’s sword. Duncan takes a moment, wipes his tunic covered arm across his forehead to clear the sweat before planting his feet and raising his sword over his head to deliver another series of deadly blows.

In the ten years that Brent’s been gone, over the mountains with his Uncle Gareth, Duncan’s grown. No longer the scrawny, short, and awkward looking nine-year-old boy Brent last saw sticking his tongue out and grinning smugly as Brent’s carriage took him away. Where Duncan used to be all pointy elbows and knobby knees, he’s now lean and toned; muscles covering his arms and shoulders, his strength apparent in the way his thighs stretch at his leggings under the hem of his tunic. His auburn curls no longer matted and unruly, now combed and pulled back, held at his nape by a leather thong.

The faint sound of a grunt wafts up to the balcony, interrupting Brent’s appraisal of the man who is set to become his personal bodyguard and Brent groans inwardly. His teenage hormones getting the best of him as the sound lands on his ears and he wonders if that’s how Duncan sounds when he’s being pleasured. Brent closes his eyes and shakes his head; this is _Duncan_. His boyhood adversary. The one who repeatedly pushed him down in to the mud and got him in trouble that always ended in dishwater and dirty plates.

Thinking back though, Brent realizes that maybe—just maybe—Duncan wasn’t always to blame. Brent understands now, after spending time over the mountains at his Uncle Gareth’s, that perhaps he may have been just a tiny bit entitled and conceited. A tiny bit.

Brent trains his eyes on Duncan again, down in the yard, only to see that Duncan’s shed his tunic, tossing it off to the side where it sits in a heap. While the Prince is too far away to see the individual beads of sweat trickling down Duncan’s long neck and continuing on to make tiny wet rivulets across his pecs, he does notice the way the sheen of sweat glimmers in the fading afternoon sun and it’s—it’s causing other things besides his eyes to take interest. One thing specifically.

Brent reaches down underneath his tunic and groans quietly as he adjusts his growing erection. He tries, without success, to remind himself that this is _Duncan_. Twenty-year-old, going to be his personal bodyguard, _male_ , Duncan. He feels his cock twitch when Duncan arches his back and pulls the leather thong from his hair causing it to spill in auburn waves over his rounded shoulders. Brent bites his lip and takes a few deep breaths.

It would be easy, so easy, to simply slide his hand inside his leggings and to curl his fingers around himself. He’s alone, way up on his balcony; his bedroom door is bolted from the inside, no one would ever know of his indulgence. After another moment of deliberation, and half-hearted self-arguments of exactly _why_ this is a bad idea, Brent’s hand slips under his tunic and down the front of his leggings.

Deliberately matching the measured movements of Duncan’s sword, Brent strokes along his cock, from base to tip and back down. His pace quickens when Duncan executes a flurry of slashes, flicking his wrist as Duncan’s sword glints in the sunlight. He slows it down when Duncan resets his stance and watches as Duncan’s bare chest heaves with exertion. Over and over, Duncan lets loose on the stuffed hay-filled sack, jabbing and slashing, and Brent’s hand follows the motions, slow and fast, deliberate and erratic until he’s panting almost as hard as Duncan.

As a final move, Duncan backs up a few paces, draws his sword level with his head and lets out a long yell. He charges the pole, delivers solid blows to the sack, high and low, reducing the hay-filled dummy to nothing but burlap shreds as Brent’s hand tightens and he grunts and spills, warm and wet over his fist.

~*~

Dinner that night is when it is made official; Duncan is now responsible for the Prince’s well-being. As Duncan takes his post, standing at the Prince’s side at the table, Brent does his best to hide what he feels is written all over his face—I pleasured myself watching you earlier. “Keith.” The Prince turns and inclines his head in greeting, hoping his cheeks are not as pink as they feel.

“Your Highness.” Duncan bows.

“It has been—” Brent pauses, swallowing as Duncan’s sharp blue eyes flick up and down in obvious assessment of the Prince. “It has been a long time. The years have been good to you.”

Duncan narrows his eyes slightly. Compliments are something he has never been on the receiving end of where the Prince was involved. “You as well, your Highness.” Duncan nods, returning the compliment before falling silent and staring straight ahead.

Brent feels like he should say something—anything—to fill the growing silence that surrounds him. Quiet is something Brent has never been able to deal with; he prefers the buzz of conversation, the background chatter of the servants, and the animated arguments of Lords and Ladies of the castle. “You—”

Duncan doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t acknowledge the Prince’s voice.

Brent clears his throat. “Sir Marion says you’ve excelled at all your training. One of the best swordsmen he has ever seen. That is quite a compliment coming from him.”

Duncan’s eyes drift down to the Prince and back up to where he’s focused on a tiny irregularity in a stone far across the hall. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, your Highness.”

“Is that so? I’m glad my life is in such good hands then. Tell me, aside from training,” Brent pauses, “and guarding me, what else do you around here? It’s been years—I’ve fallen out of touch with the comings and goings of the castle. Are you married yet? My father says I’m to be married when I turn nineteen.”

Duncan wets his lips before speaking, never taking his eyes from the stone across the hall. “I mean no disrespect, your Highness, but my job is to guard you. I can not do that effectively if you continue trying to engage me.”

Brent raises an eyebrow, that was not the response he was expecting. Although, thinking about it, he isn’t sure what he expected, but he knows it wasn’t a clipped, cool response. “Engage you?” Brent mimics Duncan’s words. “Are there dangers unknown in the hall? Cutthroats lurking in the kitchen? Assassins in the larder?” Brent finishes his thoughts, speaking in a mocking hushed whisper.

Duncan takes a deep breath through his nose and runs his tongue across his teeth. Although the Prince has aged, it appears he is as infuriating ever.

“Keith?” Brent smirks up at Duncan.

“Yes, your Highness?” Duncan grits out looking down at the Prince.

“Keep this up and you’ll find yourself back in the creek with a frog in your tunic.” Brent says with a wicked grin, reminiscent of the ones he used to give Duncan when he was seven.

Yes. Infuriating as ever.

~*~

That night, as Duncan stands stationed outside of the Prince’s bedroom, waiting for the night guard, his father appears coming to rest at Duncan’s side. “You’re a member of the Royal Guard now, son.” Master Keith starts without preamble. “You need to bite your tongue where the Prince is concerned.” Duncan’s father had overheard the Prince and his son’s exchange at dinner.

“I did, Father.” Duncan explains. “I informed him, to guard him effectively I could not be engaged in conversation.”

Master Keith hides his smile. “That you did.” He rests his hand on Duncan’s shoulder while speaking. “But son, you must understand, this isn’t a temporary assignment. This is your job. Your _life_.”

“I know that, Father.” Duncan tries to stifle his annoyance. “It is my job to guard the Prince and keep him from harm, giving my own life in lieu of his own if the need arises.”

Master Keith rolls his eyes fondly. “Don’t recite Sir Marion’s words to me, son. I know them well as I’ve taken the same oath for the King. What I’m attempting to impart on you is that, God willing, this will last a very long time. Until one of you perishes of old age rather than an arrow or a dagger to the throat. It is in your best interests to engage the Prince. Get to know him. See that he is grown, and he is no longer that little boy sticking frogs in your tunic.”

Duncan huffs. “It seems you missed him threatening exactly that at dinner this eve, then.”

Master Keith’s eyebrows raise comically high at Duncan’s admission. “Did he, now?” Master Keith lets a low chuckle rumble from his chest. “The King still threatens me with that every now and then too—so many years later. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, son.”

“It’s inappropriate. I should be respected as his guard.” Duncan says firmly, knitting his eyebrows together. “I can not be his friend and his protector.”

“Why not?” Master Keith questions, cocking his head as he asks.

“Distraction.” Duncan states. “Sir Marion says, ‘thou shan’t allow matters of the heart to get in the way of matters of the head’.”

Master Keith stifles a laugh. “’Sir Marion says’,” Master Keith shakes with hidden laughter repeating his son’s words. “Son,” he shakes his head, at a complete loss of what to say. Eventually, Master Keith collects his thoughts and speaks. “Son, Sir Marion may be an exceptional trainer, but he has never been charged with guarding a member of this royal household. Let me tell you from experience, your bond with the Prince will grow and strengthen the more you get to know him. You will no longer see this as just your duty, something you were born in to—”

“It is my duty, though. I will put my life on the line for the Prince if need be.” Duncan counters.

“Would you though? Would you sacrifice yourself for the Prince? Someone you have no connection with?” Duncan’s father presses. “You might say you will, and truthfully, you might do just that, but for what purpose? Because it’s your duty?”

“Exactly because it’s my duty!” Duncan answers, raising his voice slightly.

Master Keith shakes his head. “You are too young to understand the difference between duty and honor.” Master Keith continues after Duncan’s interruption. “Laying your life down for Kingdom and Country? That’s not duty, that’s honor and sacrifice and it’s the greatest thing you can do; it’s a powerful feeling, son. One you can’t truly experience unless you let down your guard and let your friendship grow. Sleep on it, son. Relax.” Master Keith gives Duncan a solid squeeze on the shoulder and nods farewell as he disappears down the dim, candlelit corridor.

Duncan mulls over his father’s words: duty, honor, and sacrifice rolling around in head as the candles sputter late in to the night. By the time Duncan is relieved by the night guard, he’s decided that it wouldn’t cause any undue harm to try to get to know the Prince. After all, his father is right—it’s been ten years—and although he was unjustly threatened at dinner with assault by frog, it may have simply been Brent’s way of trying to get Duncan to let his guard down.

~*~

Getting to know the Prince proves harder than Duncan initially expected: while the Prince has grown up and is now educated in the ways of the court, he is still rash, impulsive, impetuous. On more than one occasion the Prince has given Duncan the slip and led him on a fool’s errand through the forest, branches crashing and whipping him in the face as he gives chase either on foot or on his mount.

“You can not keep slipping off like that, your Highness.” Duncan admonishes as he pulls his steed alongside that of the Prince. “It is folly to wander the forest without protection.”

The Prince rolls his eyes, waves his hand at Duncan in a dismissive way. “It is folly for you to assume I am unprotected.” Brent reaches in to his saddlebag and removes a dagger, pointing it at Duncan with one eyebrow raised.

Duncan snorts and quickly regains his composure. “And what do you think a dagger will do against a bandit? You think you’ll scare them, stab them, send them running back to their mother’s teet? Your throat would be cut before you even dismounted.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Brent fires back, indignant. “My time with Uncle Gareth wasn’t spent solely on practices of the mind. I was trained in self-defense.” The Prince let his mount’s reins drop from his hand and he placed the dagger sideways in his mouth—much to Duncan’s chagrin—as he slipped down to the grass beneath his feet. “If you think I am not qualified to defend myself, see for yourself.” The Prince challenged.

This time, Duncan did not hold back his dry laughter. “Are you,” Duncan paused to chuckle some more, “challenging me?” Duncan slid down from his own mount and crossed his arms, staring at the Prince.

“Do you think I can not best you?” Brent sneered, “my Uncle has the best swordsmen at his disposal. I was trained under their watchful eye.” Brent flipped the dagger in his hand and held it, leveling it at Duncan as he once did so long ago with his wooden sword.

“Better than Sir Marion? I think not.” Duncan retorted. “I will not engage you in such madness. Remount your horse. We’re due back for dinner presently.” Duncan turned to mount his horse but found himself being pulled back by his collar and with the cold press of Brent’s blade pricking at the base of his neck. In one swift move Duncan had the dagger gripped between his fingers and the Prince down on his back sputtering all kinds of curses and ill-wishes for Duncan’s health. Duncan only raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, backing away and sheathing the dagger in his own saddlebag. “I wish not to be late for dinner.” And he mounted his horse.

The Prince lay on the ground a moment longer, glaring, before rising to his feet and brushing the detritus from his tunic. “My father will hear of this.” He stated as he pulled himself up to his mount and rode off towards the castle without as much as a backward glance.

Duncan raised his eyes to the heavens and followed.

~*~

Although the Prince could still be infuriating at points, Duncan found that he was slowly learning the intention of his father’s words; the words spoken his first official night on duty. “Laying your life down for Kingdom and Country? That’s not duty, that’s honor and sacrifice and it’s the greatest thing you can do; it’s a powerful feeling, son. One you can’t truly experience unless you let down your guard and let your friendship grow.”

This is not to say they’d reached a point of friendship, yet, but they had managed to strike a balance with one another. While the Prince still was taken to testing Duncan’s patience from time to time, he had grown to understand both the value and worth of having Duncan present. Duncan was charged with his well-being, and while Brent still felt he was fully capable of fending for himself, he did realize it was the one eternal thing Duncan was trained to do, just as Brent was being trained to be the King.

Duncan had no more say in his destiny than Brent did, he was simply doing what he had been raised to do.

Duncan had also grown to understand, to a degree, that the Prince’s life was one of constant observation, critical and watchful eyes were on him always, judging and appraising: he would one day be the King. Brent’s rebellion, Duncan used the term loosely, was his way of demonstrating he was, himself, his own person, regardless of his destiny. Brent acted out and challenged Duncan to prove he was capable, he was not some Royal lay-about that needed his every whim and need catered to. Duncan decided it was a matter of pride, much as his own actions were, that caused strife between the two young men, much as it had when they were children.

Over time, their tenuous balance evolved to one of hesitant acceptance, and finally, to one of friendship. While they were still Prince and bodyguard, they’d come to accept the other’s station in life and had accepted it was simply easier to get along than it was to be constantly testing one another.

It was at the end of Duncan’s first year of service, when there had been an aborted attempt on the Prince’s life, that Duncan realized he not only liked the Prince, he _loved_ him. While the Prince had never been privy to the planned attack, Duncan had, with the help of Sir Marion and his father, Master Keith, put an end to the ploy. It had scared Duncan, had forced him to confront his feelings when met with his internal rage and outward wrath at the ne’er-do-wells. Duncan’s father and Sir Marion had physically restrained him from absolutely dismembering the leader of the attack. It was sobering.

Duncan did his best to squash his inappropriate feelings down, deep in to his soul, always repeating Sir Marion’s words, ‘thou shan’t allow matters of the heart to get in the way of matters of the head’. At the time those words were first spoken, Duncan had simply memorized them and reiterated them, as Sir Marion was his mentor. However, he hadn’t completely understood the meaning. After the attempt, and Duncan’s subsequent revelation, he understood.

~*~

As a member of the Royal Guard, although Duncan isn’t technically on duty always—there’s a night guard posted at the Prince’s door—he finds he’s so in tune with the routine sounds of Brent’s bedchamber that it’s the lack of snoring one night that wakes him from his light slumber. Normally, by this hour, two o’clock in the morning if the moon is anything to go by, there would be soft sounds of deep slumber emanating through the wooden door that separates the Prince’s chambers from his stark sleeping quarters. It isn’t alarming per say, just unusual, the lack of noise. Or, not necessarily the lack of noise, more the change in noise; an odd rustling, measured almost, intertwined with a periodic wooden creaking. And perhaps some soft cursing.

It takes Duncan a minute, probably a moment longer than it should, but it’s late and he’s just woken so he forgives himself for the slight lack of cognizance. The sounds he’s hearing, they’re somewhat familiar, mostly because he’s made the same noises himself, minus the wooden bed-creak—Duncan sleeps on a horse-hair mattress on the stone floor. Another low curse filters through the closed door followed by more rustling and as Duncan strains to listen, his fingers wander slowly down his torso and stop moving when he’s cupped his growing erection in his hand. He gives himself a light squeeze and bites back the groan that sits right behind his lips.

He shouldn’t listen. It’s indecent. It’s impolite. It’s uncouth. It’s—it’s _intoxicating_. Duncan’s laying on his lumpy mattress, with nothing but moonlight filtering in through the window, listening to the Prince pleasure himself and soon he finds himself standing at the door that separates their quarters. It’s torture. Pure unadulterated torture as he presses his ear to the wooden boards and strains to catch the utterances spilling from the Prince’s mouth. Duncan closes his eyes, rolls so his forehead is now against the door rather than his ear, and one hand comes up to brace himself while his other quickly slides below his loose leggings as he takes himself in hand.

Duncan imagines it’s the Prince’s hand instead of his own; long, strong fingers, soft where Duncan’s are covered in callouses from years of holding a sword. Brent would lean in, brush his lips against Duncan’s ear, whisper strings of filth unbecoming of a Prince as his fingers played up and down his cock. Duncan would gently, so, so gently place his hand on Brent’s shoulder, would urge him down to his knees and the Prince would go, looking up at him with his wide blue eyes once he was fully settled. Brent would curl his fingers around the waist of Duncan’s leggings and would pull them down slowly, so they pooled at his knees, exposing him fully.

Duncan’s hand stutters as he picks up another groan through the door and it momentarily shakes him out of his illicit fantasy, but soon he’s right back in it, the Prince on his knees, fingers wrapping tightly around Duncan’s muscular thighs. ‘Sir Duncan, it is an honor to give you pleasure such as this,’ the Prince would say, because in Duncan’s fantasy he is a Knight, and why shouldn’t he be? Duncan would bring his hand down, crook a finger under the Prince’s chin and he’d reply, ‘It is me that is honored to feel the lips of the Prince upon my body’.

Another groan and again, the fantasy dissipates, and Duncan is back in his quarters, head pressed against the wooden door, moonlight throwing a silvery glow upon his stone walls. His cock remains stiff in his hand and he shakes his head slightly, somewhat embarrassed by the sugary exchange between he and the Prince in his fantasy. Duncan is not a romantic. He isn’t prone to flowery exposition. He is a hardened man, a member of the Royal Guard, plain and simple.

The rustling on the other side of the door quickens, the soft cursing picks up in intensity as does the creak of the wooden bedframe. Duncan bites his lip and tightens his fist, remains in the present to savor the sounds he’ll never know on an intimate basis. The Prince’s groans are long and unending, and Duncan swears he can hear harsh panting through the solid door. A rustle, another, and another, then one final creak of the bed and the Prince moans out, careless of the noise he’s making. Duncan’s fingers on the wooden door flex and his nails dig in, never leaving a scratch in the heavy oak as he works his cock faster and faster until his knees feel like they’re buckling beneath him and he spills, messy and wet all over his hand.

~*~

At the same time Duncan was battling his own indecent feelings regarding the Prince, Brent had found himself in a similar situation. Although their relationship as Prince and bodyguard had gotten off to a rocky start, it had blossomed in to one of friendship and trust, one where the Prince felt he could confide in Duncan most things. One thing he kept to himself though, a secret he kept buried deep inside as it was so scandalous, so immoral and shameful, that even the closeness he’d developed with his bodyguard did not allow him to speak of it.

As early as fifteen, Brent had realized he held no interest in the young princesses that paraded around his Uncle’s castle, intent on impressing the growing Prince. They were mere distractions to his studies, and to his clandestine indulgence of watching the budding swordsmen training in the yard below his quarters. Like he had when first laying eyes on Duncan when he’d returned to Castle Seabrook, Brent had stood out on his balcony at his Uncle Gareth’s and had more than once given in to his impulses while watching the young men.

Their taut muscles flexing and stretching with each swing of the blade, the strength and determination in the set of their bodies a stark contrast to the roundness and softness found in the ladies of the court. It was those visions that played in Brent’s mind when he was alone or when he was daydreaming over yet another of Uncle Gareth’s long-winded spiels regarding court policy and protocol. Brent didn’t envision a life ahead of him filled with womanly curves, soft skin, and delicate constitutions. He pictured the hardened frame of a swordsman, strength and sinew, and sturdy compositions. He yearned for the scratch of a beard against his cheek, against his lips, and a solid presence by his side.

As their friendship grew, so did Brent’s other feelings regarding Duncan, and more than once, deep in to the night when the moon was throwing its silvery glow through the slitted stone windows in his quarters, it was Duncan’s face in his fantasies while he gave in to his baser pleasures. But he stifled those feelings, it could never be—would never be—not only because of the danger and scandal that his feelings implied, but because Duncan was, and always would be, his bodyguard. Sworn to the death to protect and serve, and to swear fealty, a friendship based on necessity rather than one of true spirits.

~*~

Brent was entering his nineteenth year when his father and mother pulled him aside after dinner one evening and he _knew_ the outcome of the conversation although it had yet to happen.

“Son, as you are to enter your nineteenth year, as I had,” the King started but the Queen interrupted with a delicate hand on her husband effectively quieting him.

“Gary, dear, you needn’t be so formal with your own son,” the Queen chastised her husband before turning to Brent. “What your father is trying to tell you—”

“I’m to be married, aren’t I?” Brent interrupted, sighing. “You were nineteen when you wed, father, grandfather was nineteen as well. I understand the pattern.”

The King nodded, and the Queen took Brent’s hand in her own as she had when he was little boy. “It is true. As your father and grandfather before, it is expected of you to take a wife and produce an heir, one to rule when your time is done just as you will at your father’s passing.”

“But—” Brent paused and felt very much like he had when turning eight and he was carriaged off to his Uncle Gareth’s, obstinate and stubborn. “I don’t want to be married.”

The King and Queen shared a look of confusion and turned their eyes back to their son. “This isn’t a matter of wanting to get married, son.” The King explained, “it is your duty. This isn’t a choice.”

“We’ve found the perfect wife for you, Lady Agnes, daughter of one of Uncle Gareth’s Duke’s.” Brent’s mother kept Brent’s hand in her own. “You’ll like her, she’s intelligent and stately, beautiful and kind.”

Brent groaned inwardly; this wasn’t a fight he could have, nor one he would win even if he were to argue. He was expected to accept his parent’s declaration as it was, just as his father before him and his grandfather before that. He was the Prince and ultimately that meant that his wishes were secondary to those of the crown. He nodded crisply and excused himself to his quarters.

Duncan, who had been standing far off to the side near the door to the dining hall, turned and followed.

~*~

“I am going for a ride.” Brent informed Duncan as they arrived at the solid wooden door that opened into the Prince’s chambers.

Duncan shook his head. “Not at this hour, your Highness. It is well past the setting of the sun: we’ll head out first thing at dawn should you still wish to do so after a night’s rest.”

Brent scowled and pushed past Duncan into his chambers, knocking Duncan slightly off his feet. “I wasn’t asking, _guard_. I was telling you, I am going for a ride. You may stay here if you wish.” Brent turned his back on Duncan and started rummaging through his armoire for his riding clothes. He was stopped by a strong hand on his arm.

“And I said not at this hour, your _Highness_.” Duncan grit through his teeth. “You may be the Prince, but I am still charged with your safety and this—this is reckless and unsafe. I will not allow it.”

Brent shook his arm, dislodging Duncan’s hand and aimed a withering look at his bodyguard full of venom. “You,” Brent pointed and jabbed his finger into Duncan’s chest, “are simply a member of my father’s guard. You do not get to tell me what I can and cannot do, I am bound only to my mother and father’s wishes.”

Brent’s words stung: although technically the Prince was correct in what he was saying, Duncan had thought that his opinion, his suggestion would be taken to heart. The Prince _knew_ Duncan was doing his job, but they were friends as well. He had hoped that meant something. Apparently, he was mistaken.

“You mean as your father stated you are to be married?” The words jumped out of Duncan’s mouth before he could stop them, and he regretted the indiscretion immediately. He had watched as the King and Queen had spoken with Brent and had seen Brent’s reaction. Although Duncan did not know the root of Brent’s distaste with the proposal, it had been obvious it had rankled the Prince and had set him in to the state he was currently showing.

Brent didn’t dignify Duncan’s comment with any further words of his own, he simply grabbed his riding clothes and disappeared into his dressing chamber. Moments later, after a fair amount of cursing and the telltale sounds of a chamber pot and a bucket being thrown against the wall in frustration, Brent emerged from his dressing chamber and brushed past Duncan as if he was not there.

~*~

They rode in silence after Brent had stormed off to the stables with Duncan reluctantly following. Duncan allowed Brent to set the trail, or more accurately, Brent took off and Duncan had no choice but to saddle his mount as well and tail the Prince wherever he chose to ride.

It had been approximately an hour of winding through the forest, trodding up and down small hillocks covered in moss, and following the creek that bubbled lazily as it descended the mountain, when Brent pulled his mount to a stop in a small clearing devoid of anything but the sound of the creek and the hooting of a lonely owl.

Brent looked up at the sky, wondered at the pinpricks of light making indiscriminate patterns in the darkness. They looked so, so calm and untethered, floating against the velvety blackness of the night sky. He liked the forest: it was wide and wild and grew with unabandoned grace. There were no policies, no laws, no expectations that the woods adhered to. It did as it pleased, spreading up to the very top of the mountain and down the other side. The forest answered to no one, the forest didn’t have to get married, Brent thought bitterly.

The Prince swung down from his horse and wandered over to the creek, settling himself on a large rock where he drew his knees up to his chest and ducked his head to rest on his forearms. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t _ask_ for this life. He didn’t _ask_ for these feelings. He didn’t _ask_ for any of this. It was all given to him. Or thrust upon him, he thought. If he were to get on his horse, head North, away from the castle, away from the pressure and expectation…then what? Wander for the rest of his days? Find a small patch of land and become a common farmer, anonymously going about his days and nights in servitude of some foreign king? That was all ridiculous, he reasoned, he’d more than likely simply get gored by a wild boar or murdered by a roving group of bandits.

Brent was startled by a strong hand on his shoulder, having forgotten for the time that Duncan, ever-present Duncan, had accompanied him to the clearing.

“I shouldn’t have made the comments I did earlier.” Duncan muttered and apologized as only Duncan could. “They were uncalled for.” He sat down on rock a slight distance from the Prince, eyes constantly scanning the darkness by habit.

Brent shrugged. “You’re right though. I am to be married—despite my reluctance—it is as it always has been, as my father did, and my grandfather before him.”

Duncan didn’t answer with anything meaningful, he only gave a non-committal grunt of understanding.

“Will you be married someday?” Brent asked, his stomach tensing a little as he waited for Duncan’s reply. His reaction was nonsensical, what should it matter if Duncan was to be married?

Duncan didn’t answer right away, he picked up a small rock, turning it over and over between calloused fingers before tossing it with a small splash in to the creek. “In my position, it would be unwise to take a wife,” he said. “My duty is to protect you always and I can not do that if my concerns lie with a family of my own.” It sounded better in his head.

Brent furrowed his eyebrows at Duncan’s reply. “But…your parents—your father married your mother and he is charged with the same duty as you? He has kept my father safe and alive for many years now, even with a family of his own.” Brent cocked his head in question and awaited Duncan’s explanation.

“I…” Duncan started before throwing another pebble in to the creek. “I do not wish to be married.” He stated plainly and as if it was all he had to say on the matter, but the Prince kept picking at it.

“But why?” Brent asked. “If I’m expected to be married and expected to product an heir, then who will be charged with looking after him? Who will keep my son safe?”

“I don’t know?” Duncan’s voice raised a bit unintentionally—he was very much not wishing to reveal to Brent the real reason he did not wish to be married: because he could not be married to whom he truly loved. “You don’t even want to be married in the first place! Why are you even worried about your non-existent son?”

Brent felt his temper rising once again and spit his answer back with a bite. “I am worried, because I don’t have a _choice_. I will get married. I will produce an heir and I will have to be concerned about his well-being. You on the other hand, actually have a choice regarding your life.”

“You think that? You think I have a choice?” Duncan countered, standing up on the rock and glaring down at the Prince. “I didn’t choose to be your bodyguard. I didn’t choose to get thrown in to a life of subservience to the crown. A life where my only outcomes are to die of old age after a lifetime of doing what I was raised to do rather than what I want to do, or die taking a sword to protect you while you sit here and complain about everything that’s been given to you?” Duncan continued to rant. “A life of complete protection, devoid of the struggles of the common man? One where anything and everything you’ve ever wanted was handed over to you because you’re the _Prince_?”

Brent stood up, completely enraged at Duncan’s accusations. Duncan didn’t _understand_. He didn’t know what it was like to be the heir to the throne, to be the King’s eldest son. The weight of the kingdom fell to _him_. He would rule and be subject to constant criticism of everything he did or didn’t do. He’d be responsible for thousands of subjects, their well-being, their welfare. “I didn’t choose this either, Duncan. I didn’t choose to be the son of the King. Just like I can’t choose whether or not to be married.”

“What exactly _is_ your problem with having to get married? Is it so horrible to take a wife, produce an heir, and know that your family name will live on in honor?” Duncan was yelling at this point, red in the face, like he’d looked back when he was nine and sputtering on his hands and knees in the mud. “What, your Highness, what could possibly be so terrible about the prospect of marriage?”

“Because I’m in love with you!” The instant the words tumbled out, Brent clasped his hands to his mouth and felt like he was going to be sick.

“You…” Duncan faltered and almost slipped off the rock and into the bubbling creek below.

Brent bolted from his rock, took long, quick strides back to his mount, intent on climbing up and riding off into the woods where he wouldn’t have to face Duncan and Duncan’s imminent abhorrent reaction to Brent’s admission. He was half-way on to his horse when he felt Duncan’s hands gripping the back of his tunic. “Let me go—just leave me be.” Brent struggled to say while trying to grasp at his horses’ reins. “I don’t…I don’t want to see you.” Brent found himself dragged from his horse and being spun around until his back was up against the steed’s broad ribcage, Duncan boxing him in against the strong animal. “Duncan—”

Duncan wrapped his hands around Brent’s shoulders, crumpled the velvety deep green fabric between his fingers and pulled Brent towards him, cutting off any further conversation. He crushed their lips together, feeling Brent’s mouth tense up at first, then relaxing, soft and pliable, allowing Duncan to lick into his mouth with the reckless abandon of man consuming his very last meal. They kissed until Brent’s lips were tingling and feeling puffy and swollen and bruised, and Duncan’s breath was coming in harsh rasps, loathe to even stop for one small moment to breathe. Eventually they broke apart, the moon filtering down in the clearing, illuminating them together in its soft, silvery glow.

“Duncan?” Brent asked, finding his own breath as his breathing returned to normal.

“I—I shouldn’t have—” Duncan stuttered, aghast at his own actions against the Prince. The pent-up desire that had been building and building in him had taken over when Brent had accidently declared his love and when he saw Brent meaning to flee he had chased and taken what he wanted so desperately for so long. “I—”

Brent’s hands were all over Duncan before Duncan could piece together anything but the one letter that was stuck on the tip of his tongue. Brent’s hands winding into his long, auburn curls. Brent’s hands skimming down the sides of his velvety deep green Royal issue tunic bearing the crest of House Seabrook carefully hand-embroidered with shimmering silver threads. Brent’s hands lacing their fingers together as he pulled Duncan back to him, back into another long series of desperate and heated kisses. Nipping at each other’s lips, licking into each other’s mouths, kissing with a longing desperation that was suddenly filled. “I want—” Brent breathed out and didn’t know how to even begin finishing his sentence.

Duncan felt, Duncan felt like everything Brent had ever fantasized about; the hardened frame of a swordsman, strength and sinew, with a sturdy composition. The scratch of a beard against his cheek, against his lips, and a solid presence by his side. Duncan felt _right_.

“We shouldn’t—” Duncan started even though he was the one who’d initiated the heated fervor in the first place. It was disgraceful, unmentionable but it felt—it felt better than anything Duncan had ever felt before. His weak protest was cut off as the Prince suddenly dropped to his knees, his fingers flying over the leather laces keeping Duncan’s leggings in place.

“Duncan,” Brent breathed out, cradling Duncan’s plumping cock in his hands, Brent’s warm breath skimming across the head and sending shivers through Duncan’s limbs.

The Prince wasted no time covering the head with his plush, soft lips, sliding down along the length, tasting Duncan’s sweat and Duncan’s skin and he groaned. Around the tip of Duncan’s cock, Brent wound his tongue, circling and flicking at the ridge, the slit, tasting what Duncan had to offer at his ministrations. Brent dropped a hand to one of Duncan’s solid thighs, dug his fingers in to the deepest black velvet and held on as he pleasured the man tasked with his life’s protection.

Duncan was glad his horse was nearby—it gave him something sturdy to lean against as he had serious doubts regarding the use of his legs at the moment, his knees feeling like jelly, his thighs trembling and twitching. Below him, the Prince let loose, sucking and licking, tasting and humming, and as Duncan looked up at the sky, the stars flickered and pulsed the same way the spots behind his eyelids did when he closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Duncan’s hands found the Prince’s lush, thick hair and he wound the tendrils between his fingers, gipping loosely, fingers flexing in time with Brent’s motions.

The Prince’s mind was blur, consumed with nothing but Duncan: one moment they had been yelling at each other, reminiscent of their younger days and now, now the Prince was kneeling on spongy tufts of moss, dampness seeping in through his leggings, as his tongue played upon the spongy tip of his bodyguards’ manhood. He knew the implications of his actions, but he simply did not care at all—if there was one place in his life he could control, it was here. It was now, and this was his choice.

To Duncan, this was everything he’d ever fantasized about, minus the flowery exposition spilling from his lips in his dreams. The Prince, the tall, grown up, filled out, Prince with the dark shadow of a beard painting his face, the deep blue of his eyes glancing up to meet Duncan’s own. Duncan could feel the pleasure rising and taking over his body, his trembling spreading from his legs to his toes and to his fingertips. The entire _world_ was reduced to a pinprick, just like the stars that sparkled above, standing in this clearing and Duncan started frantically tapping the Prince’s head, signaling he was about to release the effect of the Prince’s mouth on his cock.

Brent didn’t pull his lips away from Duncan when he felt the staccato playing out on the top of his head, he doubled his efforts, taking his hand from Duncan’s thigh and resting it on Duncan’s balls and he stroked, rolling them in his hand as he sucked wetly at the tip. He heard the groan in tandem with the tensing of all of Duncan’s muscles and his mouth filled, warm and thick and bitter and he swallowed, tasting the very depths that Duncan had to give. Small kitten licks cleaned at Duncan’s cock, the Prince gently eating up the very last of Duncan’s giving before rising from his knees and leaning back against his own horse, lips puffy and swollen, hair askew, looking relatively debauched.

Duncan didn’t wait for his head to clear, he was propelled towards Brent, intent on giving the Prince every bit of pleasure as he’d just received himself. He sunk to his knees, repeating the same motions on the Prince, worshiping the skin and length and width. Worrying his tongue around the head and drawing out small drops of what tasted salty but also tasted like the nectar of the Gods to his tongue. He attacked this as he did everything else in his life, with measured, calculated movements, each motion executed to bring the most pleasure possible.

The Prince gasped and moaned, his hands found Duncan’s shoulders and he held on as if his life depended on it, and in a way, it did. Duncan was his everything: protector, safeguard, charged with his safety and well-being. In this there was no difference; Duncan was taking care of him and the Prince could barely stand with the pleasure being brought upon him. Brent wanted this to last forever but his body wasn’t cooperating, the intense flares of ecstasy shooting throughout his body culminating in a loud, drawn out moan when Duncan groaned around his cock caused him to spill into Duncan’s mouth without warning, and like everything else, Duncan accepted it and swallowed it down.

They stood, inches apart, both caught in the fuzzy-headed afterglow of pleasurable release, not speaking for a few long moments, simply gazing at each other as if they were seeing themselves for the very first time. It was Duncan who broke the silence moments later. “We should get back to the castle, your Highness. It’s late and the forest isn’t as safe as it seems.”

Brent groaned but knew Duncan was right. While he did not want to return to the castle, his carefully planned out life awaited him and as the son of the King, there was nothing—short of running off in to the woods like a small child—that would stop his life from unfolding exactly as it had been planned.

They rode, side-by-side where they could, fingers entwined, loathe to break any connection they had as Duncan’s eyes continuously scanned the dark forest depths for any signs of trouble. As Duncan closed the heavy oaken door that separated the Prince’s chambers from his own, they shared one last parting kiss, slow and languid now, none of the earlier desperation pressing through them. “Till morning, your Highness.”

~*~

Their illicit affair continued after that night in the clearing, stealing the moments they could, hidden in stony alcoves high above the castle proper, behind trees in the thick forest that bordered the grounds.

It was late in to the night, a month or so after their first kiss that Duncan was roused from sleep as the heavy door connecting their chambers creaked upon their aged metal hinges. He watched as the Prince slipped in to his stark and utilitarian quarters, clad only in his nightshirt, a flickering candle in his hand illuminating a small yellowish pool around his face.

“Your Highness?” Duncan asked, “Is anything amiss?”

Brent raised a finger to his lips, signaling quiet as he placed the candle on the small wooden stool near the door. He deftly slid the interior latch in place on the door that opened in to the castle hallway before gripping the hem of his nightshirt and pulling it over his head, leaving it to lay in a pool of white at his feet.

Duncan made to speak again, but this time, it was Brent’s finger on his lips as the Prince crawled over Duncan’s body, resting strong legs on either side of Duncan’s hips. “I have wanted to feel you, all of you, for so long now.” Brent spoke, resting his palms on the planes of Duncan’s bare chest as he quickly tossed a small container of oil on the bed next to Duncan’s wadded up shirt of a pillow. “I know what I must do, but it brings me no pleasure, only the thought of you brings me that light.”

Duncan felt himself growing hard, the pressure of the Prince’s naked body straddling his and he looked up into the Prince’s eyes. “I have wished the same—to feel the press of our bodies together, to lose myself wholly in your being.” Duncan’s hands skimmed along Brent’s thighs, bringing them to rest with his thumbs rubbing idly at the creases of Brent’s legs. “You are—you are beautiful, your Highness.” Duncan felt himself blushing, the sugary words falling from his lips very out of character but drawn out due to the abundance of feelings welling in his chest.

They stared at each other for a long moment, mapping the lines of each other’s faces, the angles and outlines of muscles before Brent slid off to the side of Duncan’s legs, leaving Duncan feeling suddenly light and like something important was missing. “Leggings.” Brent stated, explaining his movements. His fingers undid the loosely  ties laces and Duncan raised his hips as Brent slid the clothing off. They lay bare to one another, fully exposed in the flickering glow of the candlelight and it was something Duncan swore he would sear in to his memory for the rest of his days.

As much as Duncan wanted to ravish the Prince he took his time, knowing that at any moment it could be their last, so he wanted to commit to memory every action and reaction as he slowly sat up and pressed Brent back down on to his thin horse-hair mattress. He idly apologized for his lodgings and Brent laughed quietly telling Duncan they could be along the jagged and pointy rocks of the mountains and it wouldn’t make any difference to him—if it was him and his bodyguard, the scenery did not matter.

Duncan’s hands raked through the Prince’s hair as he licked into the Prince’s mouth, fingers caressing lightly along the shell of Brent’s ears. He slid his mouth along Brent’s jawline, around the curve of his neck, down along the ridging of his collarbone and into the hollow at the base of Brent’s throat. He wanted to taste and touch _everything_ , every inch of the Prince’s body, worshiping it as was fit for the son of a king. He reveled in the small noises spilling from Brent’s lips above as he worked his way down to Brent’s nipples, laving first one then the other with curls of his tongue and gentle nips of his teeth. The sounds were urging him on, the breathy gasps and half-moans of his name.

Duncan’s tongue drew a line down the center of the Prince’s torso, down around his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that descended to a much thicker thatch that surrounded the Prince’s obvious arousal. He set his teeth lightly into Brent’s jutting hipbones, traced the vee of muscle that led him back to where the Prince sat hard and waiting. Duncan pulled back, slid down Brent’s body and started at his knee, licking and kissing up thick thighs, one leg than the other, again, being drawn to the prize nestled between Brent’s legs.

Brent couldn’t decide if he wanted to keep his eyes open to watch the auburn curls and penetrating blue eyes of his bodyguard as he tasted his way along the Prince’s flesh, or if he wanted to tip his head back and close his eyes and simply drift under the light and gentle touches. It was all so much, so gentle and caring and _safe_. Brent gasped as he felt Duncan’s mouth close around the head of his cock, so warm and wet, tongue curling, affording the Prince the same slow luxurious movements Duncan had every other place on his body.

But it was not to last, a simple tease as Duncan sat back on his heels and retrieved the small bottle of oil Brent had snuck in to the room with him. Duncan pulled the tiny cork stopper and drizzled the slippery liquid on to his fingers coating them amply before guiding Brent’s legs apart as he slipped his index finger into the cleft behind Brent’s balls.

Brent bit his lip as Duncan’s finger penetrated, feeling the roughness of his callouses sliding against his rim, shuddering at the filling sensation as he first tensed then relaxed. He guided Duncan’s motions with his words and his sounds, rocking his hips gently in time as Duncan’s wrist flexed and he slid first one finger, then two, then three when Brent was pushing down hard on his hand and asking for more.

Duncan alternated between watching the Prince’s face and watching his own fingers sliding in and out of Brent’s body and it was wonderful and heady and so delightfully arousing feeling the press and warmth of Brent’s body around his fingers. He pressed in, stroking against the small hardness he found inside, gasping himself when Brent’s body tightened around him and Brent let out a muffled keen at the sensation.

It wasn’t long after that, that Duncan withdrew his fingers and was coating his stiffness with more of the slippery oil. He rested his weight on one outstretched arm and used the other to guide himself into Brent’s waiting body. As his head breached the Prince’s body they both let out small groans, Duncan stilling for only a moment before continuing his press inwards until his thighs rested on the backs of Brent’s legs and he was seated deeply and fully and reveling in the velvety pressure surrounding him.

As he began to move, the room filled with the slick sounds of skin on skin, intertwined with groans and moans, muffled as they swallowed down each other’s gasps of pleasure as they kissed. Brent closed his eyes and saw the same pinpricks of light the stars painted across the night sky. Waves of pleasure rolled through their bodies as Duncan thrust over and over, deep strokes, Brent’s legs tight at his waist. It was a feeling neither man ever wanted to end.

~*~

As the day of Brent’s impending marriage loomed, everything was blissful and they both studiously ignored the wedding preparations taking place around them.

~*~

Duncan couldn’t shake the feeling that he—they—were being watched. It was like a small itch in the back of his skull and it had been there all day since they first broke their fast, but nothing struck him as out of place, unusual. Because of the impending wedding, the castle had been bustling with numerous guests; nobles from far lands come to pay homage to the King and bid the Prince a long and fruitful marriage, but none were unfamiliar; growing up in the castle meant Duncan knew the nobles, Dukes, Lords, and Ladies by sight.

Currently, Lord Backes, Lord Carter, and Lord Coyle were among those in attendance and while Duncan certainly had his opinions regarding those three, they weren’t necessarily bad, just not to Duncan’s taste. He gave a curt nod to Lord Backes as he passes him in the corridor, didn’t miss the sneer and the condescending look he was given in return, and Duncan thought, in another time and another place, had his stature been one of nobility, or Backes’ one of guard, they might sort out their differences with swords or fists rather than veiled disdain.

“I need you to retire to your quarters, your Highness.” Duncan told the Prince as they were climbing the narrow stone staircase. “Something is amiss.”

Brent rolled his eyes. “Always so suspicious, Duncan.”

“Suspicion is what keeps you alive, your Highness.” Duncan replied, pushing the oak door of the Prince’s quarters open and guiding him inside with a hand on his lower back. “I will return shortly.”

Brent took a quick look, up and down the dimly-lit corridor, and after judging it clear, he wrapped his fingers in to the front of Duncan’s jerkin and pulled him close. “Don’t be long.” And he punctuated his comments with a lingering kiss, a promise of more to come once Duncan returned.

~*~

Duncan’s impromptu search of the nearby corridors and adjoining rooms turned up nothing, although he still couldn’t help but feel the entire time he was under a looking glass. He passed Lord Carter on his way down the staircase, but Lord Carter paid him no notice; neither did Lord Coyle when they met passing by the garderobe. Duncan was coming up towards the great hall when a hand grabbed him tightly from around a corner and he found himself being thrust sharply against the hardened stone wall.

“Keith.”

Lord Backes. Duncan ran his tongue across his teeth and let out a hiss of breath from between pursed lips. “Lord Backes.” Duncan returned the greeting, looking down to where Lord Backes’ fingers were holding his arm. Another time, another place, Duncan thought again.

“I’ve seen your sister looking at me.” Lord Backes leaned in closely as he spoke, placing his mouth mere centimeters from Duncan’s ear. Close enough that Duncan could smell the stale ale lingering in the hairs of Lord Backes’ beard. “Tell me, Keith, is she as feisty as the stablemen say she is?”

Duncan felt his pulse soaring, heard it thrumming in his ears but he could not act on his building rage.

“I’m told she’s as fiery as her auburn hair and she is leagues above the whores down in the village.” Lord Backes’ face split in to a smarmy grin as he licked his lips. “Perchance you could convince her to grace me with a visit to my chambers this eve?”

Several unsavory retorts, mostly those degrading Lord Backes’ lineage and those likening Lord Backes’ face to the rear of a donkey, sat at the tip of Duncan’s tongue, but he pushed them down to the simmering pit of his stomach. “I will do no such thing, Lord Backes.” Duncan replied as he lifted Lord Backes’ fingers one by one off his forearm. “I would never even send, to your quarters, the least desirable whore in all the land. Even if she were riddled with pus filled abscesses and plagued with the syphilis, I would not send her—she would be too good for a man such as yourself.”

Duncan was rewarded with a swift fist to the stomach, causing him to double over as pain radiated outward. “Then I shall not ask, I shall take. Good day.” Backes spun on his heel and stormed off down the corridor.

Duncan rested his hands on his knees, taking a few deep breaths until the ache in his stomach dissipated and he stopped seeing the red of anger. He made a mental note to place a guard at his sister’s door and to keep her under careful watch until Lord Backes had left the castle. But, should Lord Backes lay one finger on his sister, Duncan swore he will not be responsible for his resulting actions.

Eventually Duncan returned to the Prince’s quarters, no wiser regarding the uncomfortable feeling that’d been chasing him all day, but, his search was ultimately fruitless.

“Anything?” The Prince opened the door to Duncan, inquiring about the search.

“Nothing, your Highness.” Duncan replied. “Other than a run-in with Lord Backes.”

“Lord Backes is an insolent plague on this land.” Brent commented, making a face of displeasure. “He has been ever since we engaged in fisticuffs at my Uncle Gareth’s.”

Duncan laughed—he remembered the Prince recounting the fight one eve when they sat in Brent’s chambers late in to the night talking—but his laughter was cut off as the Prince leaned in and captured his lips.

“Let’s go exploring.” Brent pulled back, lacing his fingers with Duncan’s, giving a squeeze, “I hear there’s an abandoned stable at the far reaches of the castle grounds.”

“You hear, do you?” Duncan asked, knowing full well that stable had been there longer than they both had been, and he smiled at the Prince’s veiled suggestion.

“I do.” Brent winked.

~*~

“Did you hear that?” Duncan raised up on his elbows, placing one hand over the Prince’s mouth to keep him quiet.

Brent’s reply was muffled by Duncan’s hand, so he shook his head instead—he’d heard nothing.

“I should go—” Duncan was cut off as Brent bit the meat of his palm playfully. Duncan pulled his hand back and gave a mock glare to the Prince. “I’m serious, your Highness, I thought I heard the tick of a broken branch.”

Brent huffed. “Fine—go check upon it. You are always so distrustful.”

Duncan reluctantly raised himself off Brent’s body, pulled his tunic back down and smoothed his hands down the thighs of his leggings before grabbing his dagger from where it was laying at Brent’s side. He placed his finger over his lips, motioned for Brent to remain quiet as a distinct rustle came from right outside the rear of the stable.

Duncan crept forward, pressing himself to the wall of the stable, stepping carefully over the old broken tools that littered the floor near the door. He peeked around the edge, scanned the immediate area and looked back to Brent, again, motioning to keep quiet. Brent nodded in understanding. Duncan continued, sliding around the doorframe, keeping close to the exterior of the stable as he silently padded along until he was right at the back edge of the stable.

“A-ha!” Duncan pounced around the corner, dagger drawn and ready to attack.

From inside the abandoned stable, Brent first heard Duncan’s shout, then a tussle, then a loud squawk. A moment later Duncan appeared again at the doorway looking slightly disheveled. “It was a pheasant.”

Duncan approached the Prince, this time pulling his tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor before urging Brent to do the same.

As Brent’s pulled off his own tunic, he rose to his knees, looking up at Duncan. “I will never tire of seeing your body.” He claimed, running his palms lightly over Duncan’s bare stomach as Duncan’s hands came to rest on Brent’s bare shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m to be married in a few days’ time.”

Duncan frowned, he’d been doing his best to push the impending event from his mind, knowing that once the Prince had taken his wife, their future together would be hazy at best. The Prince had reassured Duncan, many times over, that although he would be married, there was no reason for their illicit affair to end. ‘You will still be my protector, my bodyguard.’ Brent had told him. ‘She will have separate quarters, we will still have time to ourselves.’

‘You’ll be expected to produce an heir.’ Duncan had countered, tamping down the jealousy that roiled in his stomach.

‘So, I’ll produce an heir.’ Brent had shrugged before raising a hand and trailing his fingers down the side of Duncan’s face. ‘King and Country and all the other nonsense that comes with it be damned.’ Brent’s thumb smoothed the growing crease between Duncan’s eyebrows before continuing. ‘I don’t love her; I love _you_.’

Duncan’s thoughts were interrupted, and he shivred a little as Brent’s fingers traced the lines of his muscles. He will never forget Brent’s touch; soft and gentle, caring and caressing. “I wish it wasn’t so.”

Brent leaned forward, laid a kiss on Duncan’s abdomen, traced the same lines of muscles with his tongue where his fingers had previously gone. “I told you before, I do not love her, I love you.”

“I know.” The reassurance wasn’t unwelcome.

Brent sat back on his knees for a moment, sensing the dampening of Duncan’s mood. “If it were up to me,” Brent paused as he laid another trail of kisses along Duncan’s skin, “we’d run off together, far from this land, beyond the borders of this Kingdom and we’d live our lives together unencumbered, slaying dragons and living off the land.”

The last comment drew an unexpected laugh from Duncan. “Dragons are nothing but made-up creatures to scare the children in to behaving.”

“Then we’ll slay wild boars instead.” Brent chuckled. “Either way,” he continued, somewhat wistfully, “I wish that was possible.”

Duncan didn’t answer, he only looked down to Brent’s face, traced Brent’s cheekbone with his fingers, ran his fingertips along the shell of Brent’s ear. “Were it possible, it would make me the happiest man alive.”

The Prince smiled up at Duncan. “Enough of this—we both know what has to happen. We’ve known this would happen for ages.” Brent said it with a finality to it that indicated no further discussion on the subject. He leaned back in, again letting his mouth taste at Duncan’s abdomen.

Duncan watched, pushed the unwanted thoughts from his head and allowed his hands to wander along Brent’s exposed skin until they were at Brent’s neck and his fingers were winding in to the Prince’s thick hair. A groan escaped Duncan’s lips as Brent’s nose brushed against his crotch, and another groan when he felt Brent’s mouth tracing the line of his cock through his leggings. His fingers clenched and unclenched lightly in the Prince’s hair and he marveled, not for the first time, or even the hundredth time, at how lucky he was.

Brent’s fingers were on the laces of Duncan’s leggings, picking at the double knot keeping them secured, cursing quietly at the stubborn leather ties as they seemed to tighten rather than loosen. Eventually though, he worked the knot apart, letting the ties fall to the sides and Brent slid Duncan’s leggings and the braies beneath down to his knees, letting Duncan’s hardening cock fall unencumbered.

Brent’s breath was warm as it glanced across the head of Duncan’s cock and again, it made him shiver at the sensation. The Prince’s fingers explored the shaft, always touching Duncan as if he was something to be revered, as if Brent marveled at the sight and the feelings each and every time and it made Duncan blush under the Prince’s magical touch. Brent’s long fingers, soft and smooth, stroking along Duncan’s length, never applying much pressure, feathery touches, followed by the wet tip of his tongue, bathing Duncan’s cock as Brent groaned in pleasure.

Duncan concentrated on stilling his hips, allowing the Prince to continue with his ministrations although in reality Duncan wanted nothing more than to slide his cock between Brent’s plush lips to feel the heat of his mouth.

Brent continued his leisurely mapping of Duncan’s cock with both his fingers and his tongue, but he must have grown impatient too as soon Brent’s hands were wrapping around the thickness of Duncan’s thighs, and without warning, he slid his mouth over Duncan’s cockhead and started sucking at the tip.

“M’Lord…” Duncan groaned out the informality, feeling the heat encompassing his hardness and the wet slide as Brent’s mouth took in more and more of his shaft. He felt Brent’s shoulders shaking minutely with stifled laughter under his touch; he’d been told many times by the Prince that ‘m’Lord’ and ‘your Highness’ was simply unnecessary, especially when Duncan’s manhood was in his mouth, and it sent tiny vibrations up his cock that felt like the prickle of lightning about to strike.

Brent swallowed down on Duncan’s cock until his nose was buried in the dark thatch of curls that surrounded his shaft, and the Prince breathed deeply, taking in the scent of sweat and heat and everything that was uniquely Duncan. Brent rippled his throat, pressed his tongue flat along the underside of Duncan’s shaft, felt as Duncan’s fingers tightened in his hair.

“Enough—” Duncan managed, pulling Brent back gently, letting his cock pop from the Prince’s mouth and Duncan groaned as he saw a translucent string leaking from his tip, still connected to Brent’s lower lip. Duncan swiped the pad of his thumb along Brent’s mouth, wiping the shiny thread in to Brent’s skin, and he fell to his knees, claiming Brent’s mouth with a searing kiss.

Soon, Duncan had the Prince on his back, the Prince’s leggings tossed off to the side to join their tunics, Duncan’s own leggings still tangled around his own feet. Brent’s hand rummaged around in the pile of clothing, eventually extracting a small vial of oil which brought a smile to Duncan’s face and a crinkle to his eyes when he let out a small chuckle—always prepared. The Prince pushed the small vial in to Duncan’s open hand as he sought to get comfortable, opening his legs wide, waiting for Duncan’s slickened fingers.

Duncan’s first finger slid in easily, the oil easing his entry as he began the task of opening the Prince. A second finger joined the first shortly thereafter, Duncan twisting his hand so his knuckles could brush along the insides of the Prince. A third finger, along with a bit more oil was added and before long Brent was gasping and pushing down on Duncan’s hand, letting out strings of curses unbefitting of his stature. Duncan took his cue and withdrew, wiping his oiled fingers along his bare thigh before tipping out the remaining oil and slicking up his own cock with a few short strokes.

Brent pulled his knees apart, hands resting on his shins as he drew his legs up allowing Duncan entry to his body. Duncan shuffled forward, hand at the base of his cock steadying himself as he breached the Prince’s entryway. They groaned in tandem, Brent as Duncan’s cock slipped deep inside, and Duncan as he felt the Prince’s body, soft and velvety swallowing him up in a delicious heat.

As Duncan started thrusting, Brent loosened his grip on his shins and slid his legs around Duncan’s waist, pulling him close with gentle nudges from his heels on Duncan’s lower back. The sinful sounds of skin sliding against skin, slickened with sweat filled the abandoned stable as the Prince and his loyal bodyguard came together over and over again in the throes of pleasure.

Brent’s head was thrown back, mouth open letting strings of filth and proclamations to God spill out as Duncan closed his eyes and savored the feel of Brent’s strong thighs clasped around his waist. Brent was begging for a hand on his cock; chants of ‘close, close, faster’ filled Duncan’s ears and he obliged, reaching down to take the Prince in his calloused hand.

Duncan was so far gone into Brent, panting and feeling the white-hot coals of pleasure burning in his stomach that as his head got snapped back by a strong hand in his hair, he barely had time register the Prince shouting beneath him in horror.

Duncan was ripped from where he was buried in the Prince, thrown down on to his back having the wind knocked out him, heavy body pinning him to the ground, solid arm thrown over his neck pressing on his windpipe making him struggle to breathe.

“Defiler!” The word growled through the stable in a shout and Duncan’s vision prickled as his air supply dwindled, the last thing he saw was Lord Backes’ face above his and the Prince being helped to his feet behind by Lords Carter and Coyle.

Duncan blacked out.

~*~

When Duncan regained consciousness his head was throbbing, and his neck was tender; breathing still hurt, ragged and sore as he drew in a breath. It took a moment for Duncan to remember what had happened—flashes of Brent’s face turning from one of pure ecstasy to one of harsh distress—and before long he was gripped with an intense dread, his chest constricting as he fought the panic rising inside.

He vomited. The acid in his stomach rising again as he retched over and over until his stomach cramped and he had nothing left to give.

Caught.

He’d been caught in the abandoned stable, in the final moments of their passionate meeting, mere seconds before climax, ripped forcefully from Brent’s body before being slammed in to the ground by Lord Backes as Lords Carter and Coyle tended to the Prince as if he had been assaulted. Duncan’s stomach clenched again, and he crawled to where he could lean against the cool, damp stones of the dungeon wall.

Duncan didn’t know how long he’d been left alone with his thoughts, replaying the scene over and over in his head, his whole world coming crashing down around him in that one final second. He’d be put to death—that he was sure of. There was no claiming innocence. No grand declarations that it was _love_ , that it was wanted and mutual and desired. No—he knew he would die for his transgressions.

A sardonic laugh slipped from his lips as his father’s words rattle around in his head, ‘laying your life down for Kingdom and Country? That’s not duty, that’s honor and sacrifice and it’s the greatest thing you can do’. Duncan knew that this would not go down as honor and sacrifice and it was hardly the greatest thing he’d ever do; it would go down as shameful and dishonorable, disgraceful; he would be lucky if his entire family wasn’t executed alongside him or at best, banished from the Kingdom forever.

~*~

“Son, are you—” The Queen reaches up and brushes her fingers against her son’s forehead, pushing his thick brown hair away from his eyes. “Are you hurt?”

Lords Carter and Coyle had escorted the Prince, once he was fully dressed, back up to the castle and directly to his mother’s chambers, against Brent’s vehement demands to take him to his quarters instead. His mother had opened her door and listened with growing horror as the Lords recounted exactly how they had found the Prince, down on his back, being violated by his so-called ‘trusted bodyguard’. Brent had remained silent throughout.

“I’m—I’m fine, Mother.” Brent answers tersely. “I would like to retire to my quarters if I may.”

The Queen frowns. “I think it’s best you remain here for the night, son. Let me take care of you like I did when you were a little boy.”

“I am not a child!” Brent raises his voice. “I am _fine_.”

“You are not fine, Brent.” His mother counters. “You have been—” She can’t even bring herself to say the words. “You have had an unwanted encounter. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You needn’t hole yourself up in your quarters and wallow in your pain.”

Brent looks to the ceiling and takes a few deep breaths, trying his best to calm himself before answering. “I am ashamed of nothing, Mother.” Brent understands his mother’s concern; what kind of parent would she be if she wasn’t worried about her son’s well-being. But, he is a grown man, he reasons, if he says he is fine, he means he is fine.

“I am not saying you _should_ be ashamed, son. I am saying that if you are perchance ashamed, there is no need for it. What Duncan did,” she says his name, full of sorrow but tinged as if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, “is inexplicable. Inexcusable. He has always been so good, ever since you’ve returned from Uncle Gareth’s, I don’t understand what would make him do this to you.” She shakes her head sadly.

The Prince takes a seat on the edge of his mother’s bed as he chews on his lower lip. Should he tell his mother the truth? Or should he simply not defend the man he loves? It will be scandalous. What he’s done is immoral and shocking. He will risk everything confiding in his mother—should she not be understanding with a warm heart he will be cast out. Disowned.

But he knows; he knows what Duncan is accused of is punishable by death. Without Duncan, does it even matter if he is cast out? “Mother?”

The Queen comes to sit next to her son on the bed, laying a reassuring hand on his knee as she watches his face go through a myriad of expressions. “Brent?”

“I—” Brent stops, unsure of how to continue, how much to tell. “I love him.” Brent says quietly, staring at his hands rather than at his mother’s face.

The Queen stays silent for a long moment, long enough that Brent dares a look with a quick flick of his eyes. Her face is set in question, eyebrows drawn together as if she is thinking, trying to process her son’s quiet admission. “I understand. He is your guard and you two have grown close over the last few years, it’s understandable you’ve grown to love him as a brother, but after what he—”

“What Lords Carter and Coyle spoke is not the truth.” Brent explains. “That isn’t what happened, Mother.”

“You weren’t violated?” His mother questions, not hiding her sigh of relief. “Why would they tell such falsehoods? Why would they come to this chamber claiming you were in the arms of a _man_? Does their hatred of Duncan run so deep that they would have him put to death?”

Brent stalls, mulling his next words, piecing together the most delicate way to tell his mother that no, he wasn’t violated but yes, he had been caught in the arms of a man. “Duncan did not force himself upon me, Mother. That part is untrue.” Brent takes a deep breath and rises from the bed, turns towards the door on the chance he is forced to make a swift exit. He clears his throat before continuing. “Duncan and I—” he starts, “we—” Brent pauses again before letting out his final admission in one large rush of words, “what happened between us was shared. I love him deeply, Mother.”

The Queen half-stands, considers for a moment then sits back down on the bed and covers her face with her hands as her back begins to shake. “Please, go to your quarters, Brent. I—I need—”

Brent nods even though he knows his mother isn’t watching. His stomach twists and his heart sinks as he leaves the room.

~*~

Suppertime comes and goes, and Brent remains in his quarters. He’s thrown the door open to Duncan’s adjoining room, Duncan’s _empty_ adjoining room, and Brent sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands wondering if he’s done the right thing by telling his mother. More time passes, and his room grows dark, he can’t be bothered to light a candle as the sunlight fades and is replaced by the silvery glow of the moon. A soft knock interrupts his wallowing and he rises, opening the door.

“You haven’t eaten.” His mother stands in the corridor, candle in one hand, a plate piled with roast pheasant and root vegetables in the other. She pushes past her son and places the plate on his nightstand before tipping her candle and lighting the few that are scattered throughout the room. She comes to sit in the divan, clasping her hands in her lap as she assesses her son. “Your earlier words were shocking to me, I admit. I needed time to consider what you’d said.”

Brent returns to his bed, back to the edge and ignores the plate of food; he doesn’t much feel like eating right now.

“We can not tell your father. Do you understand that, Brent?”

Brent nods.

“You are my oldest son. My first-born and my love for you runs deeper than any admission you could ever make. But,” she pauses, waiting for Brent to raise his head to meet her eyes, “what you have said is troubling. It would bring disgrace upon the entire family. You would be stripped of your title, cast-out. Your father could be dethroned as well.”

Brent nods again. “But, Duncan—”

“Duncan will hang. Right or wrong--this isn’t something that can be changed, Brent.” His mother rises and comes to join him on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close. She pets his hair as he breaks down against her shoulder. “You two must have known that risk when you engaged—” She trails off for a moment, “time will heal your wounds, son. You are still young.”

~*~

“Psst—Duncan—”

Duncan narrows his eyes and peers across the dimly lit cell to the dark outline standing at the iron bars. “Sir Marion?”

“Shh—” Sir Marion puts a finger to his lips but beckons Duncan to the front of the cell with a crooked finger.

Duncan pushes himself up, groaning quietly as the damp has seeped in to his bones over the last few—he doesn’t know. “How did you get down here?” Duncan asks in hushed tones, eyes scanning up and down the rows of deserted cells.

“I was owed a favor by the jailkeep.” Sir Marion explains. “I have little time to explain why. I must know, what got in to you? You had so much promise, Duncan—and this?” Sir Marion looks distressed as he speaks.

“It isn’t true.” Duncan says, there’s no point in hiding the truth from Sir Marion. Sir Marion has known him since he was just a small lad swinging a wooden sword; Sir Marion always knew when he was lying. “I did not violate the Prince. I would never—”

A knowing smile breaks out over Sir Marion’s face and he wraps his hand around Duncan’s fingers as they grip the bars of the cell. “I had an inkling.”

“Pardon?” Duncan questions Sir Marion’s words.

“You two have grown quite close over the years; I’ve not missed the way you gaze upon the Prince when you think no one is looking.” Sir Marion raises an eyebrow at Duncan as Duncan opens his mouth to protest. “I myself have gazed upon another in a similar fashion and while I did not end up in a dank prison with the threat of being hanged upon me, I was cast out of my birthplace many years ago.”

Duncan tilts his head in question—Sir Marion has been a part of the castle’s staff for as long as he can remember. Honestly, Duncan had assumed Sir Marion simply sprung out of the ground when the castle was built, he was that much of a part of the comings and goings at Castle Seabrook, no other explanation ever entered his mind. “You were?”

“A story for another day, should we ever cross paths again, I reckon. But back to you; as early as when the Prince was eighteen and first back from his Uncle Gareth’s, I knew you were skeptical of him—the way you were as boys—but that didn’t stop you from looking, admiring from afar. ‘Thou shan’t allow matters of the heart to get in the way of matters of the head’, do you remember when I told you that, Duncan?” Sir Marion asks.

“Yes…” Duncan answers warily.

“I meant what I said and look where not heeding my words has gotten you.” Sir Marion admonishes Duncan, but it isn’t terribly stern, his words are more tinged with a note of sadness. “It was my indirect way of giving you warning, not to go down the same path I wandered down many ages ago. Perhaps I should have been more direct.”

“Why are you telling me this, Sir Marion? Did you come down here to say, ‘I told you so’?” Duncan struggles to keep his voice low and muted.

Sir Marion reaches through the bars and cuffs Duncan sharply along the side of his head. “Of course not, you nitwit.”

Duncan rubs where Sir Marion’s hand has left a fading sting.

“I’ve come down here to help you escape.”

~*~

The Great Hall is fully decorated; flowers, ornate tapestries, tables and tables overflowing with breads and meats and enough wine and ale to drown the entire kingdom; decorated in a manner befitting the nuptials of the Prince and his soon to be wife.

Up in his bedchamber, Brent fiddles with the laces lining the front of his wedding chemise and doublet. So many laces—the leather getting tangled together as Brent can’t keep his hands still. He isn’t nervous, he couldn’t care less about his impending wedding—he can’t stop moving because he feels if he does all the events of the last few days will come crashing back down again and he won’t be able to keep it together any longer.

He’d been informed that Duncan’s hanging would be set for the day following his wedding, in the main courtyard, as the castle opened its doors for the entire town to witness the death of the man who dared violate the Prince. Brent had been kept under careful watch by not only his mother, but a full contingency of guards rendering him unable to sneak off down to the dungeon to at least tell Duncan he loved him one last time. The Prince had come dangerously close to committing his own act of violence against Lord Backes when the Lord had passed him by in the hallway and had whispered some rather degrading comments, about not only Duncan but the Prince himself, in his ear.

Brent vowed his first act as King, whenever that occurred, would be to strip Lord Backes of his title and banish him to lands far, far away. Either that or throw him in an oubliette and do just that—forget about him.

“Lady Agnes is waiting, son.” The Queen smooths her hands down the front of Brent’s doublet, straightening the many laces he’d tangled. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but tradition is tradition.” His mother’s eyes look sad as she speaks; over the last few days she’d watched as her son slowly became distant and detached from the present. “The Kingdom needs an heir to carry on the line—you will be King one day and you must have a son to rule after your father’s days and your days are over.”

“I know, Mother.” Brent replies but his voice is flat and void of emotion.

“You look so handsome, so grown up.” She tries to lift the mood a little as she speaks. “No longer my little boy, my little Prince.”

~*~

The moment Brent has taken his wife, the bells ring out, melodic and merry, and a cheer resonates throughout the castle grounds and ripples along through the town.

Down in the dungeon, Duncan feels his stomach lurch.

~*~

The overcast grey clouds and the thin sheen of drizzle dampening the outer courtyard of the castle reflect Brent’s mood as he sits aside his parents and his new wife, Lady Agnes, awaiting Duncan’s hanging. His stomach clenches and his heart feels as if there’s a pair of blacksmith tongs wringing the life out of him, sharp and painful. He feels helpless, destitute, morose. In a matter of a quarter hour, he will watch as his loyal bodyguard, his _lover_ , is led out from the bowels of the castle dungeon to the wooden platform; hanging for a crime he didn’t commit. Murdered is more like it, Brent thinks. Hanging is for those who are guilty of their accused transgressions; murder is for the innocent. The innocent who cannot confess the truth behind allegations.

All around the Prince mutters of ‘ne'er-do-well’, ‘immoral’, and ‘scoundrel’ fill his ears. Hushed rumors, baseless and inaccurate, spread through the higher rises of the royal viewing station. Brent is sure Lords Carter, Coyle, and especially Backes are behind the whispers and it makes his stomach churn with anger and sadness. But he remains unmoving; staring stonily ahead when his wife takes his hand.

“He will be hanged soon, Husband.” She squeezes Brent’s hand in what she thinks is a gesture of reassurance. “This world will be rid of his depraved and corrupt ways.”

Brent narrows his eyes and hisses between clenched teeth. “Do not speak of things you know nothing about.”

Agnes averts her eyes and drops his hand at Brent’s vicious tone.

The church bell begins to toll, slow and resonating, methodic and measured, as all eyes in the stands drift down towards the path leading up to the wooden platform. Trudging along, black fabric sack covering his head with his hands bound before him, Duncan is being led from the castle to the front of the audience. Brent stifles a broken sob as he watches, and his mother’s hand comes to rest on his forearm.

“It is as it has to be.” She whispers in hushed tones. “Time will heal your heart.” And she feels her own heart breaking as she sees the pain in her son’s eyes when he looks down to her concerned face.

“It will not.” Brent whispers back, “this wound will last a lifetime.”

The Queen sighs sadly.

~*~

Duncan’s body hangs lifeless and limp, swinging slowly like a waning pendulum as the crowd dissipates after the hanging. Up on the royal viewing platform, Brent sits, head in his hands, quietly grieving.

“Shall we retire to your quarters?” Lady Agnes asks, unsure of how to proceed, catching the Queen’s eye over her husband’s bowed shoulders.

The Queen shakes her head minutely and takes Lady Agnes’s arm in her own. “Leave him be. He’ll return to the castle in his own time.”

“But he should—” Lady Agnes starts but is interrupted by the Queen.

“Leave him be.” She says with finality, but not unkind. The Queen feels bad for her son’s wife; she will have many years of Brent’s sorrow to contend with.

~*~

Brent isn’t sure how much time has passed since the hanging; when he looks up the stands are empty, and Duncan’s lifeless body is being pulled down from the noose, black sack still covering his head. He maps Duncan’s drooping form with his eyes one last time, taking in the lines of his shoulders, the cut of his arms, the familiar line of Duncan’s legs, and the spill of auburn curls hanging limply from underneath the black sack. He closes his eyes and imagines running his fingers down the muscles of Duncan’s arm, strong from countless hours of the sword, pictures tracing the hard lines of Duncan’s cheekbones and the solidness of his waist.

Brent’s breath stutters when he remembers the last time he saw Duncan: watching the look on Duncan’s face, his expression etched in ecstasy as he thrust in to Brent’s body, muttering over and over declarations of love, until his head snapped back, and he was ripped from the Prince. Another shuddering sob breaks through Brent and he knows he will never recover.

~*~

The sound of muffled footsteps and the barely audible clink of iron keys rouses Duncan from where he’s been sleeping lightly, leaning against the damp and mildew covered stones making up the walls of the dungeon. The heavy cell door creaks open, the noise overtly loud in the dank darkness below the castle.

“Make haste.” Sir Marion’s voice whispers out of the dimly lit doorway as a body wearing a dark hood is shoved roughly through the cell door, collapsing on to its knees. “This way.”

Duncan pulls himself to standing, steps around the hooded body and follows Sir Marion as he leads them away from the prison. “Who was—” Duncan starts.

“No-one.” Sir Marion hushes Duncan and continues winding his way along the darkened corridor by feel, running his fingers along the stone walls, stopping at corners to listen before turning and continuing. It feels like ages that they’ve been walking below the castle, turning this way and that, ducking through small secret entryways, pressing flat against the damp stones every so often when Sir Marion would halt and signal for absolute silence. Eventually, after many more twists and turns, they reach a short set of stairs and Sir Marion stops Duncan with a hand on his chest.

“Take this.” Sir Marion thrusts a small sack in to Duncan’s hands. “It’s not much, a few heels of bread, some dried meat, a few pieces of silver.” He places another small pouch on top. “Wine.” Sir Marion clarifies. “This door will lead you out in to a small clearing at the forests edge. Go north in to the mountains.” Sir Marion explains as he hands over a pair of sheathed daggers.

“I—thank you, Sir Marion.” Duncan fumbles for something to say, something to convey his deep gratitude towards Sir Marion for helping him escape.

“Keep going until you are far, far away. Make a new life for yourself and forget this place, this castle.” Sir Marion continues.

Duncan nods in the darkness, reaches out and wraps his hand around Sir Marion’s shoulder. “I will never forget your kindness. Please—”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Sir Marion answers without Duncan asking his question. “Now, off with you. Don’t stop. Don’t ever look back.”

Duncan gives Sir Marion’s shoulder one last squeeze and ascends the short staircase and disappears off in to the night.

~*~

Duncan walked for what seemed like days, and eventually those days turned in to weeks and he was far on the other side of the mountains that separated Castle Seabrook from the kingdoms of other countless Kings. During his time, the thick stifling press of the forest had given way to sparser and sparser copses of trees, eventually thinning out and the trees turned to wide swaths of farmland, the muted faded gold of wheat stalks leaning over as he continued. He passed some homesteads, spread few and far between and spent more than one night curled up, dagger clutched in his hand as he afforded himself a few hours of rest before waking.

He spent two silver pieces on a horse that had seen better days as he passed through a village set far enough away from the mountains that their snow-capped peaks did not cast shade over these lands. From there, his journey took him west, passing through lands foreign to him, people foreign as well. The further from Castle Seabrook he traveled, the less and less he heard rumors and the hushed gossiping of what befell Prince Brent and his loyal—disgraced—bodyguard as he stopped at inns and taverns for a warm meal.

For a time, once he was at least two weeks west of the last rumor, he lent himself out as a hired sword, making small amounts of coin. But it wasn’t the same, there was no sense of duty, no sense of honor or dignity in being hired to shake down bandits and to protect those of lesser stature than the Prince himself. Duncan was raised to protect and serve the crown, and without that one mission, one that he’d previously cursed being born in to, he felt lost, untethered—drifting from place to place without a sense of purpose.

Throughout his travels, his grief of losing Brent never lessened and he wished, and he desired nothing more to lay his eyes on his Prince once more. But it was not to be: what they’d done, regardless if it was wanted, was what had led him here, at the cusp of another thick, unruly forest. Duncan sighed and rode forward, tired and drained, mentally void of any feeling other than the harsh stab of his reality and the desperate longing that never seemed to fade.

~*~

A year passed, and Brent’s heart still hurt as much as it had the very day he watched Duncan’s lifeless body limp like a waning pendulum hanging from the platform where he met his death. Attempts at producing an heir had been fruitless. At first, Brent unable to even perform the act with his new bride without becoming morose and unfunctional. He’d been poked and prodded at by the castle’s alchemists and physicians to no avail. He’d been subject to leeches and any number of foul concoctions that did nothing but leave him with small bruises or an upset stomach.

Throughout it all his new wife was accepting, telling Brent when the time was right they’d welcome a son in to the world: she could see her husband was struggling, though did not understand or know exactly why. While she understood he had watched what was supposedly his faithful bodyguard hang, she could not understand how his feelings ran so deeply for a man that had violated the Prince.

Over time, although the pain was that of a fresh wound, they were able to fully consummate their marriage, but no son, or daughter, came from their coupling. It was only due to the constant pressure from not only his family but the kingdom in general that they kept trying. However, as one year turned to two and still no heir had been produced, whispers started to plague the kingdom—had the defiling of the Prince damaged him in some way? Made him unable to produce an heir? Brent heard the whispers as he wandered aimlessly through the courtyards, through the cobble-stone streets of the upper city.

He’d been assigned another bodyguard, Sir Andrew something-or-other. Brent never knew, nor did he make any effort to care. It wasn’t Duncan.

His mind wandered, and he grew more and more distant from the comings and goings of the castle, withdrawing to his quarters for days on end, eating little, sleeping little. He went for long walks along the edge of the forest, remembered the days spent down at the creek when he was just a boy, fighting and tussling with Duncan, sticking frogs in his jerkin because it made Duncan red as the blacksmith’s poker and Brent wept. What he would give to have those days back again.

~*~

“Son—” The King started, but like always, the Queen silenced her husband with a gentle hand.

“Brent, son,” her voice was soft and affectionate, “we understand Duncan’s passing has been tough, he was a good friend until…” she paused, letting her words hang before continuing, “but it’s been almost two years. You _must_ let this go. You _must_ return to your duties as Prince.” She kept her words vague having never admitted to her husband the truth behind Brent’s relationship with Duncan.

Brent sat staring stonily ahead, face set in a blank mask, his mothers’ words passing through him as if she hadn’t even spoken.

“Son, there has to be an heir—” The King started but stopped short as his wife quieted him with a look.

“There will be an heir.” She stated. “We will find a poor unwed servant girl with a babe if need be, we will sequester your wife and produce the babe as your own doing as husband and wife.”

The King nodded, he wasn’t entirely convinced of the plan, they had a second son—Brent could abdicate if need be, but he also understood that without any reason other than ‘the Prince’s mental state has deteriorated beyond that of rule’ and without explanation, it would do nothing but stir flagrant rumors around the castle. The babe would rule when he was old enough, with their second son as a close advisor.

“Do as you wish.” Brent finally said. “I have no care.”

The King started to speak again but his wife’s hand silenced him once more and she asked that he take his leave to afford her a moment of privacy with her son. The King nodded and retreated.

“Brent,” the Queen took one of Brent’s hands in her own as she raised the other to his face as she slowly stroked the unruly beard that covered his face. “You _must_ find a way to heal, I can see you hurt, but this—” she waved her free hand up and down at Brent’s disheveled and unwashed tunic, his hair, long and tangled and unwashed falling below his shoulders. “—this has to stop. You are the son of the King and you look more like a poor beggar dragged from the streets.”

Brent looked down but didn’t speak.

“Duncan is gone, son. He isn’t returning, he hasn’t simply been banished. He was hanged.” The Queen spoke the harsh truth but spoke softly and gently. “I know you loved him—”

“ _Love_ him.” Brent corrected.

“Loved him, but your duties await, this kingdom will need a new King someday and that King is you.” Brent’s mother tried to reason with her son, pled with him to come back to her as the man she knew he could be.

Brent shook his head, he didn’t want this, he couldn’t do this—he could never become the man, the King, his mother, and the kingdom needed him to be. That died the day Duncan hung.

~*~

When it became painfully apparent no heir would ever be produced—Brent had taken to locking himself in his room for long stretches of time, and when he did come out he ranted and raved nonsensical mutterings to himself—the machinations were put in place to acquire an heir-apparent instead. Two days ahead of the planned announcement proclaiming a son had been born to the Prince and his wife, Brent gathered up few belongings, some salted meat and heels of bread, along with an ample coin purse. He had slipped dwale into his bodyguard’s ale and had waited until he was passed out and he set off in to the forest upon his horse in the dead of night.

Brent rode and rode, until he was bone tired and slumping against the neck of his horse. He collapsed against the base of a tree and slept in fitful starts and stops until the blinding sun filtered through the treetops of the forest and he awoke, feeling none better than he had the night before. Cupping his hand in the bubbling creek and wetting his throat was all Brent did, other than watering his horse and feeding it some oats, before climbing back on to his steed and continuing. Because of his meandering it took much longer for Brent to leave the thick mountain forest behind him than it had Duncan, although Duncan had the threat of potential pursuit behind him to urge him far, far away. Brent was running, although he knew not where he was running to. Simply, away.

In truth, it was most likely a death wish that sent Brent away. He could no longer face life in the castle; the questions about an heir, the pressure to return to the court, the sorrowful looks from his wife and his mother, the bodyguard that was not Duncan. His mind was becoming unhinged, unbalanced; whispers of ‘the Prince has gone mad’ filled his ears on the infrequent times he left the solitude of his quarters and he didn’t disagree. It was everything that drove him from his home, the wish to simply live out his days wandering in quiet solitude, hopefully to meet his end at the point of a bandit’s dagger or the slicing tusk of a wild boar. It didn’t matter, there was no purpose in continuing this life if Duncan was no longer in it.

He didn’t meet his untimely end in the forest though, so he simply kept riding until he almost dropped from exhaustion every day, every week. He did stop occasionally in the small villages he rode through—filling his wine skin, purchasing bits of dry and salty meat and crusty breads. Here and there he heard rumors about himself, he’d gone mad, he’d died, he’d run away, taken a long sojourn on a royal mission to faraway lands—the heir had apparently been produced regardless of his disappearance, and the folks on the far side of the mountains worried little as Castle Seabrook was not of their own kingdom. They were simply rumors to keep the wagging tongues of innkeepers and scullery maids busy.

~*~

Back in some unnamed to him town Brent had caught rumor of a sell-sword that had passed through almost a year prior that had somewhat fitted Duncan’s description. It had given him a tiny thread of hope to cling to, even though he knew in reality, it was likely coincidence—he had seen Duncan hang. Any search he made was fruitless, it had been almost year. Those who were willing to speak to him, and they were few, given Brent’s disheveled and mad appearance, had no further information: the sell-sword was there, and then simply gone one day.

Brent stood at the edge of yet another thick forest, hopeless and destitute, feeling his life was waning and draining out of him day after day, week after week. He hadn’t bothered refilling his wine-skin in the last town, hadn’t bothered giving any coin for anything other than oats for his horse. He was giving up, plain and simple, retreating in to the last forest to die.

He was two days in to the forest when it happened: a rustle in the bushes followed by a searing pain slicing across his thigh. He cried out in pain as the wild boar rushed again, this time, his tusks catching Brent above the hip, puncturing his skin before backing off to try again. Darkness closed in around Brent’s vision, everything fading, the only feeling was his blood pulsing out of his wounds, wet and sticky as it soaked in to his travel stained britches and jerkin. He slumped to the ground as everything went black.

~*~

Muttering to himself, Duncan opened the door to his make-shift hut he’d built himself deep in to the forest not too far from the feet of another jutting mountaintop. He’d picked up an axe in his travels, had lived off the land and assembled a small place to live, tanning the hide strips from animals he’d killed to eat to strap the logs he chopped together, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. What kind of life was this? His days consisted of getting up, chopping wood, starting a small fire to let glow under his one cooking pot. He’d hunt during the day, pick wild berries and plants, simply existing to exist because even though he had nothing left to live for, he couldn’t disrespect Sir Marion and another chance at life.

He’d let his horse run free a while back, when he realized he no longer needed it and it was unfair to the animal to keep him tethered outside in the wild reaches of the forest. On the off times he did venture out beyond the forest, it was simply for a few absolute bare necessities: salt for drying his meat, a few vegetable seeds to plant potatoes and other hardy root vegetables to help stave off the harsh winters. He’d heard an heir was produced, way far away at Castle Seabrook and he wept silently on his walk back to the depths of the forest, thinking for certain that life had gone on, Brent had forgotten him and what they’d had for such a short but passionate time.

It was on his way back, after that trip in to the village that he’d come across a particularly ornery wild boar that left him cut up and bruised and missing a few teeth as the boar slipped from his grasp and ran back off into the woods. In that moment he cursed the boar, not because he’d let it go, but because it hadn’t killed him and left him to die. He was completely alone.

Another day, another hunt, thought Duncan. Perhaps he’d encounter the same boar again and this time either get his revenge, or let the boar get his he supposed, and he pulled the door shut to his hut and set off in to the forest.

He wasn’t terribly far from his hut when he heard the tell-tale rustle in the underbrush that signaled the presence of an animal trodding through the forest. He crouched, pulling his home-made bow from across his back and unsheathing an arrow before notching it and leveling the piercing weapon at the stand of bushes. Then he saw it, the bloodied tusk of the ornery wild board emerging from behind the leaves, stuck to it, a strip of mostly stained red deep green velvet with silver threading fraying along the edges. It reminded him of something, but he had no chance to think as the boar charged suddenly, causing Duncan to abandon his bow and arrow and instead draw the sharpened dagger from where it hung on his hip.

The boar lunged as Duncan did, both slashing, looking to injure the other, to draw blood and take down their enemy. Duncan managed to grab the strip of fabric, tossing it back towards his bow to inspect later, provided the boar was the one left dead after the encounter. The boar’s tusk sliced against his arm, nicking Duncan’s skin, leaving a sting in it’s wake but it gave Duncan the opportunity to execute a practiced headlock on the animal where he drove the dagger deep into the boar’s throat. The boar gurgled and grunted, thrashing wildly as Duncan hung on and choked the remaining life out of the dying animal. He let the boar’s lifeless body slip from his arms as he panted, catching his breath and assessing himself for any injury beyond the nick in his arm.

Declaring himself mostly fit and relatively unharmed, Duncan bound the feet of the boar and trussed him, getting it ready to be dragged back to his hut for cleaning and subsequent skinning, flaying, and cooking. He retrieved his bow and arrows and bent to pick up the still warm and sticky stained strip of fabric. He took a moment, turning the fabric in his fingers when he realized the source of the familiarity—the deep green was reminiscent of the house colors of Castle Seabrook, the silver threading the same that decorated the crest he wore on his chest as loyal protector to the Prince.

Duncan felt his heart in his throat. It couldn’t be, not out here, not so many years later. It didn’t make sense but…Duncan abandoned the boar, hoping it would still be where he was leaving it whenever he returned, and he pushed his way through the dense branches of the bush the boar had appeared from. He was able to track the previous movements of the boar easily, broken branches, hoof marks pressed in to the soft moss and damp dirt. Duncan followed the marks, retracing the boar’s path and stopped short for a split second before taking two long strides and dropping to his knees hands frantically moving to press at open wounds.

Duncan would know this body anywhere, no matter how disheveled and unkempt it looked: Brent, his Prince. He ripped the arm of his tunic off, tore it to strips starting the pieces along with what teeth he had left and hurriedly raised Brent’s leg off the ground, winding the cloth strips around above the wound as he tied it off tightly. The wound above Brent’s hip didn’t seem to be bleeding as much, more just oozing thick clotting blood but Duncan used his other sleeve to press against the puncture to staunch any remaining trickle.

Brent gave a weak groan without opening his eyes as Duncan pressed against his hip, but it was the only sound he made.

Duncan scanned the area and found Brent’s well-worn saddle bag spilled out not to far from where Brent’s body lay—and he took to mean Brent’s horse may still be somewhat near—most likely scared by the boar, but perhaps reluctant to leave his master’s body. After a quick search of the surrounding area, he found Brent’s mount idly munching on a small tuft of grass growing at the base of a tree. He coaxed the animal closer, muttering soothing words, holding out the saddlebag for the horse to nose at before it took a careful step towards Duncan. He took the opportunity to grab the reins and lead the horse back to Brent’s body.

Carefully, Duncan maneuvered Brent’s limp form till it was hanging over the horse’s body horizontally and he hoped it wouldn’t do Brent any further harm on the short walk back to his hut. He stopped as he passed the wild boar, taking the rope he’d used to truss it up and dragged it with one hand while he held the reins of Brent’s horse in the other. As he approached his hut, he tied the boar up in a tree to keep it safe from any other animals, he’d deal with it later, and slid Brent down, into his arms and brought him inside his small home.

Brent stirred again, moaning quietly as Duncan carried him over to his straw-stuffed mattress where he laid him down, kneeling on the floor beside him. The bleeding seemed to have stopped by then, but both wounds were covered in dirt and bits of moss and Duncan knew that if he didn’t get the deep gouges cleaned out soon, it wouldn’t make any bit of difference that he’d found Brent after all this time.

Duncan carefully removed Brent’s tunic, sitting him up as Brent slumped limply against him and he replaced the tattered and blood-stained garment with a loose-fitting tunic of his own. He then worked at the laces of Brent’s leggings, the blood and dirt making the thin leather thongs stick to themselves and knot up even tighter. Giving up, he used the dagger at his side to simply cut through the knotted leather until the front flaps of Brent’s leggings splayed open and Duncan could carefully slide them down over Brent’s legs and ankles. He dressed Brent in a pair of his braies and left him free of leggings to allow him direct access to the deep slice that wound down Brent’s thigh.

Duncan left Brent’s side for a moment, although loathe to do so now that he had his Prince again, he knew he needed to tend to the wounds lest they fester and become infected. Duncan hurried around the hut, tearing old tunics to shreds, darting off to the clear mountain stream that bubbled and babbled not far from his hut, filling a bucket with the cold, crisp water. Back inside, he poured the water into his cooking pot, stoked the fire a bit adding a log or two and tossed the cloth strips in, boiling out any dirt and debris that would further harm Brent’s injuries. As he did this, he kept a watchful eye on the Prince, noting he did nothing to stir other than a few quick movements of his eyes behind his closed lids.

When Duncan was convinced the strips of cloth had been sufficiently cleaned, he dumped the water out of the front door and refilled the cooking pot with the remnants in the bucket. He let that come to a boil too and waited impatiently for it to cool a bit before ladling it out into a waiting bowl. He dropped the wet strips of cloth in to the cooling water and set the bowl down on the floor to Brent’s side. Gently and carefully, Duncan drew the wet strips across Brent’s wounds, cleaning out the bits of forest detritus, cleaning away the drying thick rivulets of blood that caked Brent’s smooth and pale skin. Soon, he’d gotten Brent’s injuries cleaned up the best he could, and he used a few remaining clean strips of fabric to dress the slice that decorated Brent’s thigh and the hole that sat dark and discomforting above Brent’s hip.

With Brent’s wounds dressed, it left Duncan with nothing to do but wait, and hope, that Brent would eventually regain consciousness. He spent the time seated on the floor, next to Brent, gently caressing Brent’s skin and not thinking of anything past the fact that Brent was _here_. _Now_. He didn’t know what brought Brent to him, in this condition, years later, but he thanked God and he wept, although he wasn’t sure if they were tears of grief, tears of happiness, or just tears that had been pent up and stifled all this time.

By the time darkness fell, Brent hadn’t opened his eyes, but he had stirred and groaned once or twice: Duncan took it as hopefully, a good sign. He had gathered more water, boiled it and let it cool, using more strips of fabric to wet Brent’s lips and to wipe at the perspiration that dotted his forehead. At bedtime, Duncan brought his fire down to the red glow of coals and stuffed a wadded-up tunic under his head as he curled up on the hard, wooden floor next to Brent. He slept lightly, waking constantly to check that Brent was still breathing, when he did sleep, his dreams were fragmented: memories of when they were boys, the night in his quarters when Brent had snuck in and they had lain together for the first time, the look on Brent’s face when Lord Backes had cruelly ripped Duncan from Brent’s body. His dreams flitted much like the movement of Brent’s eyes behind his lids.

The next day went much as the last, no improvement from Brent, but, at least thankfully, he was still alive. Although, his cheeks had taken on a pink tinge and the perspiration lining his forehead was heavier than the night before. Duncan spent his time laying cool strips of damp cloth across Brent’s head, held his hand, stroked his thumb along the join of his fingers and spoke quietly, rambling about nothing at all, talking to fill the silence, talking to keep himself from thinking. He changed the dressing on Brent’s wounds, sniffed at them a little, they didn’t seem foul to him although they did look a harsh shade of red along the edges. He kept doing what he knew how to do—clean the wounds, dress the wounds, and pray to God that Brent would survive.

The second night, just as Duncan’s eyes were fluttering closed, Brent let out a moan that sounded vaguely like Duncan’s name. Duncan sat up like a bolt and hovered over Brent, saying his name, stroking his fingers along the unkempt beard that surrounded his face. But Brent didn’t stir again.

The following day, after cleaning and dressing Brent’s wounds, Duncan continued his care of Brent, gently rubbing warm strips of cloth along his whole body, bathing him as if he were a child unable to care for himself. Softly he stroked the warm fabric down Brent’s arms, over his hands and between each finger, stopping to lay a kiss along every knuckle while silently praying. Down over Brent’s chest, thinner than it had been the last Duncan had seen him, feeling the individual ridges of Brent’s ribs as the thin cloth swiped over his skin. Carefully moving his make-shift washcloths around the jut of Brent’s hipbones and the wound that settled just above the left side.

He somewhat unsurely pulled the loose braies down and efficiently cleaned the crease of Brent’s legs and his softened member laying flaccid against his thigh. Down Brent’s legs, still thick but somewhat less so than Duncan remembered, avoiding the winding gash that would leave a serpentine scar for the rest of Brent’s days, and over his knees, his calves, his feet. When he was finished, Duncan brought out his dagger, cleaned and heated the blade to ensure it wasn’t still covered in bits of drying boar blood, and with delicate flicks of his fingers and wrist, used the blade to trim Brent’s beard till it was close-cropped and he no longer looked like something wild that crawled out of a cave in the mountains.

The thought made Duncan chuckle somewhat unintentionally, knowing that his current look could easily fit that description as well: his beard auburn and unruly, same with his hair, matted and tangled. He was still leaning over Brent’s face just looking when Brent’s eyes fluttered open for a half-second and then they closed again. “Brent?” Duncan questioned, hoping.

Brent didn’t move.

With a dejected sigh, Duncan finished trimming the last of Brent’s beard, cleaning up the remaining stray hairs along his neck and he was straightening back up when Brent moved again. “Du—” Brent coughed and his eyes flitted open again for moment before closing.

Duncan grabbed a small cup and filled it with now cooled water and gently raised Brent’s head with his hand, praying Brent would wake up and take a sip. He tipped the cup slightly, letting the cool water lap against Brent’s lips, wetting them, waiting.

Brent’s eyes fluttered again, and he kept them open this time, hazily trying to focus, but instinctually reaching out his tongue to dip in to the water.

“Careful,” Duncan said, hoping his voice wasn’t wavering half as much as he thought it sounded to his own ears, “slowly.”

Brent took a few careful sips of the water before he closed his eyes and slumped back down heavily, trapping Duncan’s hand between his head and the makeshift pillow. “Brent?” Nothing.

Duncan extracted his hand and continued his vigil.

~*~

In the time Brent heard the rustling and the time the boar was on him, he had one thought—this is it—and as the world faded to black around him, the last thing he thought of was Duncan.

Sometime later, Brent felt a jostling beneath him, felt as though he was being rocked back and forth, pain flaring through his body and he lost consciousness again.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a voice, far, far in the distance saying his name, but it was gone before he could grasp at anything.

Brent didn’t know how much time had passed, he wasn’t even entirely sure if he was alive or dead at first, but he landed on alive since he assumed were he dead, it wouldn’t feel as if a thousand hot blacksmith pokers were searing their way across his leg and through his stomach. He didn’t think too much after that for a while.

At some point, the vision of a wild man flitted across his vision; covered in auburn hair, gaps in his mouth, penetrating blue eyes filled with concern.

He kept hearing that voice though, low and mumbling, flat and monotone, talking about nothing, just incoherent sounds in his ears and it was comforting though he didn’t know why. It reminded him of something, something just out of his grasp, fleeting like the tendrils of smoke that rose and dissipated just as quickly from the fireplace in the kitchen back at the castle. He rested his eyes and let the voice wash over him and cover him with a sense of ease.

Brent’s voice croaked and felt rough with disuse in the back of his throat as he coughed after one syllable. What was he going to say? He didn’t remember. His lips were wet, and the same voice was speaking to him, gently raising him from…from wherever he was and there was water, cool and quenching upon his tongue, slipping down his throat and the feeling was gone.

It was dark by the time Brent’s eyes reopened save the pale-yellow flicker of a candle sitting not too far away. It took a time for Brent’s eyes to focus, the flame a blur at first, but slowly taking form and gaining an outline. He didn’t move but looked around noting the rough wooden boards of what appeared to be a wall, the cobbled stone of what was probably a cooking fire pit, a crooked wooden stool sitting in the corner. A soft snore to his left caused him to turn his head and when he did, everything swam in his vision and he felt his stomach lurch and he didn’t move until the room had righted itself and his stomach no longer felt as if it was trying to force itself out through his mouth.

There was a figure sitting next to him, head bowed down, chin resting on its chest, slowly bobbing with the rise and fall of his breathing. He thought the shape looked familiar, like the one that had been hovering over him when he’d fluttered his eyes open previously. Brent continued looking, tracing the outline of the shape to his side, over the unruly mess of hair, the wild long beard, over the rounded slope of strong shoulders, down sinewy arms to where they ended in strong hands that looked calloused in the candlelight.

Brent’s brain searched and searched, it all seemed so…familiar to him but his mind was still hazy, fogged from the dull throbbing of pain in his side and along his leg. It took a moment and it must have been Brent’s quiet cough and the figure’s eyes snapped open and Brent _knew_. “Duncan?”

~*~

“Brent?” Duncan almost pitched forward from surprise when he heard Brent saying his name. Brent’s voice was rough and scratchy, but it was definitely Duncan’s name on his tongue. “Brent?” Duncan said again with urgency lest Brent drift off again like he had the few times already.

“Duncan? Is that—where am—” Brent struggled to speak, to put words together to from complete questions, suddenly everything at once trying to spill out of him.

“Shh—shh. Here.” Duncan helped Brent raise his head and quickly placed the cup to his lips. “Drink, slowly.”

Brent did and sipped some more, slowly as Duncan had spoken, as he let the cool water slip down his throat. When he was done, he tried again, “is—”

“Shh…” Duncan quieted him again with a gentle finger against his lips. “It’s me.” Duncan blinked away the tears that were stinging at his eyes, tears of relief and joy and happiness. He recounted finding the boar, the strip of fabric and the silver threads that spurred him in to action. Duncan told Brent of finding him laid out on the forest floor, unresponsive, and how he’d led him back to his hut, cared for him, nursed him and his wounds until they were here, in the present.

“But how?” It was a lot for Brent to take in—the last he’d seen Duncan he was being carried away like a limp sack of potatoes, hung for committing the most grievous of sins although he hadn’t truly committed a crime at all. “How are you alive?” Brent tried to move, tried to sit up and Duncan didn’t speak again until Brent was resting, propped with some more balled up tunics behind him and leaning against the wooden boards of his hut.

“Sir Marion helped me escape.” And Duncan told Brent of Sir Marion’s plan, the anonymous hooded body thrown in the dungeon as Duncan had exited. Told of leaving the dungeon through the twisting and winding dark, damp stone corridors. Told of making his way through the mountains to the other side, the farms and villages in between. As he spoke, he gently wiped the falling tears from Brent’s eyes with the pad of his thumb, tears that Brent couldn’t hold back in his relief of finally seeing Duncan alive and well and _breathing_. “You should rest.” Duncan said, after he felt he’d been talking for what seemed like hours. “You’re still hurt, we’ll talk more in the morning.”

Brent nodded, although he didn’t want to rest, he wanted to stay awake, to continue to simply be in Duncan’s presence, to feel Duncan’s calloused fingers against his skin but his eyes wouldn’t let him. They drifted closed against his wishes and his head felt like he was drowning again, getting stuffy and cloudy and he felt Duncan helping to reposition him back, so he was laying down and the last thing he remembered was the soft press of Duncan’s lips to his own as he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

~*~

It was another day or so before Brent was able to get out of bed to join Duncan at the rough-hewn table and chairs he’d managed to cobble together in the last year. The smell of roasting boar meat was making Brent’s mouth water and he realized just how famished he truly was when Duncan placed a pile of steaming meat and a couple pieces of potato on a slab of wood in front of him. He dug in immediately with his fingers, careless of Duncan’s protests that it was still searingly hot. Brent yelped and stuck his fingers in his mouth instantly to cool the sting. Duncan tried to hold back a chuckle.

After his meal had sufficiently cooled, and Brent was sufficiently stuffed, it was his turn to tell his story of how he came to lay in the forest, leagues and leagues from the castle, at death’s door. Brent told the story of Duncan’s hanging and everything he could remember from that point forward. His pain, his grief, his spiraling descent into what people murmured around the castle was madness.

“But…the heir?” Duncan asked, remembering the rumor he’d heard down in the village. “I heard—”

Brent shook his head and told of the Queen’s plan, telling Duncan he simply couldn’t bear any of it anymore and how he had drugged his bodyguard and slipped out under cover of darkness just two days before the heir-apparent was revealed. He told Duncan of wishing to die out in the wilderness, life was not worth living if Duncan could not be a part of it. “And since you must never return to the castle, and as I mean not to myself, I suppose we’ve got our wish after all.”

Duncan furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Brent in question, he didn’t recall any wish that included him supposedly dead and therefore banished from the kingdom along with the runaway Prince that held his heart.

“We’d run off together, far from this land, beyond the borders of the Kingdom and we’d live our lives together unencumbered, slaying dragons and living off the land.” Brent said, voicing his wish from the fateful day when Duncan was ripped away from him.

The last comment, sending Duncan back to that memory draws an unexpected laugh from his lips and he repeated what he’d said then as well. “Dragons are nothing but made-up creatures to scare the children in to behaving.”

“Then we’ll slay wild boars instead.” Brent laughed, and Duncan felt his chest tighten at the sight of Brent’s eyes crinkling at the sides and the way his mouth opened wide and his lips curved up in happiness. A sight he never dreamed he’d see again. Brent shifted slightly in his chair and his laugh turned to a grimace for a split second before he was laughing again as he spoke, “but I should probably let my wounds heal first.”

 

 

 


End file.
